


The Sunset Starks

by SoulGamesInc



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Dark, Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, House Stark, Magic, Original Character(s), Realistic, Robb Stark is King in the North, Romance, Shapeshifting, The Old Gods (ASoIaF), Trauma, Wargs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulGamesInc/pseuds/SoulGamesInc
Summary: Brandon the Shipwright attempted to sail across the Sunset Sea, but never returned, his tomb in the crypts of Winterfell remaining empty. He made landfall against the odds on what would become the Sunset Islands and now generations later the youngest son of Brandon VII Stark attempts to cross the Sunset Sea and return to Westeros. This is the tale of a wandering prince's journey to the far reaches of the world and beyond. Winter is Coming.
Kudos: 13





	1. The Shipwright

**Author's Note:**

> Is this how I post stuff here?! Ah well, we'll see - I digress! This is my re-write of The Sunset Starks that I started many years ago on Fanfiction.net but wasn't entirely happy with, posting it here chapter by chapter as I progress writing it. I'm no professional writer nor do I aim to be, this is purely from my brain unto the wasteland of internet scrutiny, so constructive criticism is always welcomed. I've no clue what half these Tags are so I'll disclaim, this does get dark; while Willam Stark isn't a SI he is heavily flavored after my own struggles these last years and as a result the early chapters of his life aren't sunshine and rainbows. This fic isn't for the faint of heart. I've never posted here before so I'll mention how my characters aren't Mary Sues, no matter the character or how important he/she may seem; people make mistakes and often in these settings those mistakes have bloody consequences. An untouchable character is a boring one. I try to be realistic/in character with my scenarios.
> 
> I'll update as I'm able. Free time is limited lately but I do enjoy writing when I can. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> My regards  
> \- Soul

_"Across the sunset and unto dawn!” – King Brandon the Shipwright_

It was unlike anything the North had witnessed in living memory as thousands of men, women and children gathered at Sea Dragon Point regardless of status or means; the King had called on all and any with the courage to join him on what he’d declared to be the greatest adventure Westeros had ever or would ever know. They came in droves from far and wide, lords and lowborn alike, all eager and hopeful for their promised futures past the sunset.

King Brandon Stark stood atop the battlements of Fargard looking out over the Sunset Sea with glee, his greatest voyage standing before him; a dream he’d held to stubbornly since he was a wee Prince of Winterfell playing with wooden ships in the safety of home. Now, he stood as King, with the Sunset Sea calling him like a lover.

“Your Grace,” came a voice familiar to the king. The boy waited for a response.

Brandon did not turn to eye the boy, looking down instead at the shoreline where his mighty fleet rested, waiting for him impatiently. So many had answered his call. Nobles had sent their third or fourth born sons, or cousins, or uncles, the spares; unable to inherit anything in the North besides the sword; or a black cloak. Few would pick the Night’s Watch over a kingly promise of new lands across the sea. “Join me,” Brandon had told his people. “Join me and prosper, my people, my companions, my brothers and sisters! Across the sunset and unto dawn!”

He’d always been one for speeches and his people, lords and lowborn alike, loved the man for it. His reign had been a popular one.

That said, not all shared his vision. There were many among the nobility that questioned the wisdom in risking the Western Fleet for such a risky venture; chief among them, the Prince of Winterfell.

“Father?” The boys voice brought a weary sigh from the Kings lips.

“Bran!” The king mustered a smile, ready for another lecture from his son. Gods, how he’d grown…

“Please father?” The boy was a man, with pups of his own in truth; but would forever be a boy in his father’s eyes. “It’s not too late. Tell the lords it is folly; I beg of you, end this madness!”

“My dear boy,” King Brandon turned to clasp his son’s shoulder. “you’re my greatest pride, you know this, I trust?”

“I-“ The Prince diverted his eyes. “Please father, just listen-“

“You and your mother, gods keep her, are my first loves.” The wind blew through the old king’s grey hair as he spoke with a sad smile. “This venture will be my last. I will succeed, of this I know; the sea is my third love, but I shall not return. I go knowing the North is in capable hands, with plenty of little pups to do better than I.”

“You’re a stubborn old fool,” The boy snarled. “Mother would call you as such and worse, you know it!”

She would indeed. He smiled genuinely at that; as his heart ached, longing to see her again. “She’ll curse me soon enough boy,” he laughed. “I’ll join her with the gods, and she’ll scold me dead twice over…”

“Then stay,” The boy shrugged his father’s hand away. “spend your last days at Winterfell, see your grandson grow, bore him with tales of your damn adventures! Just stay father, for us?”

King Brandon eyed his boy. He’d make a fine king, this much he believed.

“Bran,” he held a sword and scabbard in hand now, wrapped warmly in wolfskin.

“You never call me Bran-“

Prince Bran stood wide-eyed.

“Ice belongs to you now,” Brandon held out the sword and handed it from father to son gladly, as the Stark kings had done for generations; the blade had always belonged to them since the dawn of valyria. It had cost them a small fortune to forge, but that was a long story for another time. Ice changed hands once more.

“This is yours,” the Prince protested, holding the blade like a child might hold a toy.

“It belongs to the King,” Brandon smiled at his son’s hesitance. It was the crown however that caused the boy alarm, off from the greying locks of King Brandon and into hand; held out as a gift few would refuse.

The Prince didn’t move, holding Ice tighter in his grip.

“Take it,” Brandon insisted. “You’re king now my-“

“No,” The Prince shook his head. “No!”

“It’s your duty Bran.”

“Duty?!” The Prince spat the word like venom. “What do you know of duty, Your Grace?! You who left so often for flights of fancy on your damn ships? You who abandons us now, no matter how hard I try-“

“Bran,” The King pleaded, moving his free hand to reach out to his boy.

“No!” The gesture was refused. “Keep your crown father, flee, you damn fool!”

Prince Brandon Stark stormed from the battlements in a fury, grasping onto Ice with white knuckles and a burning rage in his heart. He’d look back on this day with regrets. The last time he’d see his father.

“Your Grace?” A new voice snapped the king from his stupor.

“Rylen,” he greeted the man with a weary sigh.

“I see the Prince took things well?” The man grinned half-heartily.

“King now,” Brandon explained. “He’s your King now Farstark, not I.”

“Long may he reign,” Rylen Farstark smiled at his old friend.

He was surprised to be handed the crown, half Stark or not. It wasn’t the done thing.

“He refused the crown?”

That wasn’t good. The lords would not be pleased…

“He’s angry,” Brandon scoffed. “The boy will settle. You know how he can be Ry.”

“Aye,” Rylen did know. The wolfsblood howled in that boy since he was a mere pup.

“You will give it to him for me, old friend? Tell him how proud I am? Do this for me.”

“I shall,” Rylen knelt then; ever dutiful. “I swear it by earth and water, by bronze and iron, by Ice and Fire.”

Brandon bid his friend rise. “You needn’t be so damn dramatic dear cousin.”

Lord Farstark smiled. “Shall we meet your adoring public one last time, cousin?”

“Aye, we shall.” Brandon took one last look out over the battlements before they left together. The water was so calm, the horizon calling him, his sorrows all but forgotten for a moment. He’d prey at Fargards hearttree before setting sail, to ask the gods for smooth sailing; but mostly to prey for his boy in the trials he’d have ahead of him.

“Let his reign be peaceful,” Brandon the Shipwright would prey.

It would start in fire. King Brandon the Burner would begin his reign on his knees in ashes, his father’s crown in hand, howling into the night as in his grief he set light to the anchored fleet at Fargard; and the port with it. None know what truly transpired and why the Burner all but doomed House Farstark to ruin, but the house and its brief legacy faded into history as a result. The Burner would spend his reign fighting a renewed Ironborn threat, all too eager to take advantage of the Norths weakened state. His kingdom would never recover its western strength at sea and Brandon the Burner refused to step foot on a ship for the remainder of his life.

The Shipwright would never learn how the gods had ignored his plea for peace.

* * *

Near enough a hundred ships had set sail from Fargard, boasting a hundred crewing most of the larger classed vessels; named “Snows” with their two square rigged masts and double decks. They carried lowborn, nobles, sailors and smallfolk alike, each flying an assortment of banners from Stark to Glover, Mormont, Ryder, Flint, Frost, and many more; including the Grey and Kar and Farstarks who had come to support their kin.

Brandon the Shipwright stood at the helm of his flagship ‘the Shipwright’ that bore his name, the largest in his fleet and a marvel of engineering made possible only by the aid of Braavos who gifted King Brandon with the ship for his services – a trade the man was all too eager to make. He’d no regrets, believing his flagship to be the envy of others.

There had been no breeze for almost a fortnight before and when the wind had finally returned, the sky turned a red crimson.

“Still no sign of land, father.” Prince Varik Stark said, seeming bored.

His father smirked, rolling his eyes at the youngest prince’s impatience.

“We’ve awhile to go yet lad,” Brandon told the young wolf. “The Sunset is vast.”

“And bloody endless,” Varik scoffed.

“Not endless.”

They’d been at sea for a week; pushed since the winds returned it had been smooth sailing, but any foolish hopes of finding landfall so soon was just that – bloody foolish. A storm was brewing far in the distance, however, a cause for some concern. The Sunset Sea was known for its harsh storms and sea monsters, though the latter were myth.

“Captain Bolvir!” Brandon called out to the man as his eyes glanced the storm growing ahead.

“I see her Your Grace!” The man muttered, turning his head sharp to order a crewmate.

“Your thoughts good man?” Brandon asked politely, walking to his side.

The storm looked vast, a growing darkness that seemed to blot out the sun, nothing minor; it loomed on the horizon and seemed to taunt the fleet.

“If we sail around, it’ll cost us time Your Grace…”

“Or it’ll cost us lives’,” Brandon muttered. “No. I’ll not risk it, we sail around.”

“Agreed,” The Captain nodded gladly.

The storm grew closer, creeping, crawling as the fleet moved to avoid it.

 _“Something is wrong,”_ Brandon thought suddenly, feeling a chill in his bones…

The storm raged ahead, like no storm he’d ever witnessed.

“The Farwind!” A cry came from the crow’s nest above them.

A chorus of shouts followed.

“She’s turning!”

“The flags raised!”

“What in the gods name is he doing?” Varik added his own voice, rushing to the edge of the deck; shoving crewmen aside to get a better view. The Farwind was Farstarks ship, and it was turning; sharp, right towards the storm.

Rylen’s boy had either lost his wits to the sea, or something was very wrong…

“More signals!” The watcher in the nest cried out for all to hear, panic growing in his tone.

“Your Grace?” Captain Bolvir asked. “What should we do-“

The crack was deafening, like thunder; a whip cracked out across the fleet and seemed to stun every soul into silence. All whispers died. The Shipwrights crew watched in awe as time seemed to pass slower.

The Farwind was shoved aside, rammed from the far side by some unknown enemy.

“All hands, to arms!” Brandon cried out his order. “We’re under attack!“

By what he couldn’t say, there were no sails and nothing in sight.

“By the Gods,” is all Brandon heard his son mutter, as the whole crew backed away from the ships edge besides his ever-brave boy. The young wolf pup turned to eye his father, with fear fresh in his eyes.

“KRAKEN!” The watchers cry snapped all from their stance, back to reality.

The Farwind had since turned too far, to face away from the fleet, revealing its keel all but shattered; a great oily black monster creature clinging to its hull like a damn leach sucking blood from a man.

“Signal the port!” Brandon commanded, refusing to abandon the Farwind to the depths.

At his orders, the bulk of the fleet fled onward to avoid the storm with the flagship of Mormont taking lead; no use against a damn monster – Brandon wished his people safe. That included the Farwind and her crew, many of whom appeared to have abandoned ship as the Farwinds main mast snapped and fell under the kraken’s tendrils.

“Dead Ahead!” Brandon ordered.

“Your Grace?!”

“Ram the bastard, Bolvir!”

The wind was with them in the fury of the coming storm.

“Father!” Prince Varik pleaded. “Corren’s on that damn ship!”

Rylen’s youngest. Gods forgive him, there was no other choice; the Farwind was lost.

“Dead Ahead,” Brandon repeated; louder still. “Raise the white flag, show our intent dammit!”

“You’ll destroy her!”

“She’s already lost lad,” Brandon snapped. “but we can save her crew!”

The Shipwright closed distance with the speed of a raging storm, closer and closer still; straight for the Farwind and the beast that held her in its tendrils. The ship’s crew, or those that remained, had abandoned the wreck.

“BRACE!” Brandon screamed atop his lungs, and his crew held firm.

The two ships collided, and the Shipwrights bowsprit speared the gigantic creature like a hot knife into butter, causing the creature to wail and cry out something frightful; worse than any noise Brandon had ever heard.

“STARK!” The cries came as the beast was impaled, dying, black blood flowing into the sea.

“Get the survivors up!” Brandon ordered; his eyes darted swiftly to the storm that now threatened them. “We’re not out of the woods yet boys! All hands dammit!”

“We’ll never make it,” The captain muttered to his king. “Not with the beast weighing us down…”

The beast was still skewered on the Shipwrights bow.

“Gods be dammed…”

The sea was black with blood around them as the Farwind sank like a stone into the depths, the stink of it assaulting all onboard. Two other ships of the fleet had followed the Shipwright, standing by no doubt in awe.

“We’ll have to abandon the Shipwright for the Frostbite,” suggested Prince Varik hastily.

“There were two,” came another voice; from a man drenched in blood; clawing himself onto the deck.

“What?” Brandon asked, eyeing the young man. Something in his eyes spoke of horrors.

“Corren!” Prince Varik rushed the man and embraced him as a brother, despite the smell.

“Two,” The blood drenched Corren Farstark snarled more akin to wolf than man. “By the gods and the lives of my crew I swear it. The first was huge, it knocked off my fucking stern! The whole damn thing!”

Silence washed over the ship. That was… That was madness…

“The kraken crawled onto my deck like it was…”

“It was what?” Brandon asked warily.

Farstark’s mind seemed to wander off from reality.

“Cousin?” Varik asked his friend, growing all too clearly concerned.

The man never had a chance to explain as the Shipwright jolted, and half the crew lost their footing.

“Corren!” Prince Varik called out to his friend as the man was flung back over the ship, into the blood, into the darkness; followed by more than a few others unlucky enough to fall.

 _“What now?!”_ Brandon thought, his wolfsblood raising; this was damn madness. Varik had moved to grab his friend, just in time to watch him fall, and now between the ripples of blood and saltwater he could see a shadow move underneath; larger than anything had any right to be. This was no mere kraken.

Brandon and his crew watched in silence as the Frostbite was hoisted up out of the bloodied sea by a small island of scales and fins, lifting the ship up with unnatural ease and knocking it aside. The Frostbite crew’s screams rang out as it fell crashing back down into the sea, splintering, sinking into the depths of blood.

“Gods save us all,” Captain Bolvir managed to say as all others began to panic.

“It’s a sea dragon!” One of the crew declared in their terror. “We’re dead!”

Sea Dragons were a damn myth. This was madness…

“It’ll eat us whole!”

The crew continued to panic.

“Madness,” Brandon muttered the words, near speechless.

It happened in an instant. There was nothing any mortal man could do as the beast lunged out of the waves, a snake-like head full of razor sharp teeth opened wide to slice through the dead kraken with no effort at all, taking the bowsprit with it and jolting the entire Shipwright in the action; sending men flying this way and that like ragdolls.

The last thing Brandon saw was the main mast as he was flung from the helm.

Voices called out as the world seemed to fade.

“The king!”

“Where’s the dragon!?”

“Gods save us!”

The voices faded now.

“Father?!”

He’d been a poor father in life, he feared.

“Get the fucking healer!”

Gods, how had everything gone so wrong?

 _“Lyla is going to kill me,”_ Brandon would’ve laughed at the thought of his dead wife killing him a second time over, even smiled at it, but by the gods he was tired; and everything was so heavy.

Brandon the Shipwright went to sleep, lost in the middle of the Sunset Sea.

* * *

The gods were cruel to torment him with such dreams.

“Your Grace?” His sons voice called out in a whisper as the old King opened his eyes.

“My boy,” Brandon groaned, his headache nearly as vast as the damn Sunset Sea. “I had the strangest dream.”

“Oh?” Prince Varik asked, waiting to hear his father’s tales; like he was a child in Winterfell again listening to grand tales of adventure. Gods how he missed those days, so much simpler. “What’s the story now, old man?”

“Krakens lad,” Brandon began warily. “And a sea dragon the size of a damn island, tossed the Frostbite aside like a child’s toy; I’d never been so terrified. It was colossal Varik, like something out of nightmare…”

The Prince managed a chuckle. “The Frostbite was shattered,” he moved to kneel beside the old wolfs bed. “the Farwind lost; with half her crew too, but we got the kraken at least.”

Brandon sighed. “The dragon?”

“It stole our kraken,” The young prince laughed at his own jest, though it was hollow.

“Not a dream then?”

“No,” Varik denied. “Sadly, not a dream father…”

A moment passed in silence as Brandon tried to remember the details.

“Corren fell,” The boy filled the quiet. “too fast, too dark, we couldn’t find him.”

Ry's boy lost. So many others lost too, nobles or otherwise. Gods be damned.

“Lord Frost is assumed lost with the Frostbite, we’ve few if any of his crew.”

Frost’s youngest was on the Seawolf, safe from all this madness, with any luck.

“The storm that followed was hellish.“

“The storm?” Brandon shifted himself up in the feathered bed.

“It snuck up on us like a damn viper,” Varik explained. “You were knocked unconscious father; we feared the worst. The storm battered us, and the next storm that followed took our fucking foremast as a prize.”

“Everything has gone to shit in my absence, I see.”

Prince Varik scoffed. “I’d say krakens and sea dragons was fairly shit even with your presence, father; I’d take the storms gladly. Thank the gods the beast seemed content with snacking on the kraken and not us…”

Thank the gods indeed. If that monstrosity had seen them as worth its time? They’d be helpless to do anything besides wait and die.

“What of the fleet?”

“We found the others,” Varik explained with a sigh. “but not a day after that, another storm hunted us; stronger than the last. That bastard took a mast and more than one good ship. Others suffered damage akin to our own.”

Brandon wasn’t sure what had caused more damage, the monsters, or the storms.

“You’ve been out for just over a week,” the boy explained. “slept right through the storms old man.”

“I’m old lad,” Brandon managed a smile for the pup. “Old people nap a lot. Now, help me to my feet.”

Walking out onto the Shipwrights deck, the damage was vast and obvious; although the hull was intact the bowsprit had been ripped clean away; the rear mast a splintered ruin. Brandon’s priced flagship was near broken.

“The Greywind has taken lead,” Varik explained as he led his father on deck; where the crew greeted him with cheers, glad to see their old king walking among the living. No doubt, they hadn’t smiled in some time.

“Greystark didn’t offer you command lad?”

“He did,” Varik shrugged. “I refused to leave your side, and the Shipwright isn’t fit for task besides.”

It wasn’t. His flagship was barely holding together, a damn miracle she could still float at all.

“Half the damn fleets gone,” Brandon realized aloud to his horror.

“Aye,” his boy sighed. “The storms father, you should’ve seen them; it wasn’t natural…”

“The gods are with us lad, they must be.”

“The gods?” Varik raised a brow, ready to argue. The Old Gods had no eyes at sea.

A bird flew overhead, cawing at the crew.

“Fuck the damn gods-“

“There’s a bird?” Brandon stared at the sky in awe, watching the bird fly overhead.

“A bloody gull…”

A horn blew from ahead from the Greywind’s crow’s nest. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, it's voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from home. Silence broke into cheers as a wave of relief washed over the fleet, as if every man and woman left living was holding a breath they hadn’t realized.

Brandon and his whole crew rushed to what remained of the Shipwrights bow.

“Land.” The word seemed so foreign, so distant, a hope that had begun to die for many. Surely enough on the horizon a line of white cliffs appeared from the light morning fog. The Winter Fleet rushed eagerly to landfall, to taste hope they’d all but lost.

“It’s beautiful,” Brandon the Shipwright muttered, falling to his knees at the sight.

“Aye,” Prince Varik agreed. “And vast too – I never doubted you father.”

 _“I did,”_ The old wolf thought as the sun raised up above the cliffs ahead of them.

They’d made it, despite everything the gods tested them with; despite the losses and the blood – before them laid the Sunset Islands, future home of those that followed him into the unknown at great cost to themselves.

No venture was without its risk. Nothing worth doing was ever easy, and they’d made it despite the odds. Brandon would be the first to step foot on the beach, his people quick to follow their old king.

“Winter can weather any storm,” The old wolf declared proudly.

The Sunset Islands proved a vast and mighty archipelago that Brandon’s people were quick to settle. The largest island was claimed by Brandon himself and the fortress of Winterhold would be raised atop the very same white cliffs that had first greeted his fleets arrival. In the years that followed, as his descendants made the Islands home, a town below the white cliffs of Winterhold grew in size and prosperity to become the largest port city in the Sunset Islands; home to the anchored Winter Fleet – as the Shipwrights heirs would never lose their love of the sea; as harsh as it could be to them.

Time passed as it always does, violently, and at first many tried returning east but none would ever survive such ventures and soon enough the idea became one of madness, naught but a cautionary tale for children. Many generations later, with Brandon the Shipwright now naught but an adventure story for young Stark princes; one such prince dreamed of sailing to Westeros, to do the undoable and to escape from his demons.

As the shipwright had done a thousand years before, a Stark dreamed of sailing into the sunset.


	2. We Are Winter

_“You wanted blood? So be it!” – King Brandon the Bloody_

The all too familiar sound of clashing steel echoed in the air of the courtyard as two men fought, many servants gathered around to watch. They stepped around an imaginary circle. One, far older and wiser than his opponent, stepped the opposite way, maintaining his distance and prepared to defend against any blow. The second was young and impatient; tired of waiting, lunging forward with a centuries old war cry.

Their swords locked and sang of steel.

"You’re too eager lad," The elder smiled wide.

"And you talk too much!" The youngster growled, using strength beyond his years to push himself free. He swung with all his might and smirked as he seemed to gain the upper hand briefly, pushing his opponent further and further. He swung forward, hoping to end things there and then.

"Fuck!" The youngster cried as his teacher side-stepped, easily dodging the strike, disarming his foe.

"You’re also predictable," The elder mocked, standing idle as the boy picked up his sword.

"Predict this!" The youngster lunged wide and his teacher quickly moved to parry only to take a step closer and bring his sword up, wrapping it around his opponents then sliding down the outside of his blade, jerking his own sword inward; causing the youngsters sword to fly out of his hand.

"Thank you," The boy’s teacher bowed as the audience clapped. "I'm here all week ladies!"

"You cheated!" The youngster scowled.

"No, little wolf. I won." The elder smiled, ruffling his pupil’s hair against his will.

"Well done Willam, you’re getting better."

The voice snapped the young wolfs attention aside.

"I lost," Willam sighed, disappointed.

"Cedric is older and more experienced." The man placed a hand on Willam's shoulder. "I taught my son as he now teaches you, young Prince – listen well and songs will be sung of you someday lad."

He smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Lord Frost.”

Soldiers filled the courtyard behind the old lord, his hair white as snow with sapphire blue eyes that shun like stars in the dark of night. On his hip Frostbite rested impatiently, the ancient steel of House Frost, rumored to be forged of pure ice from the Long Night. Will knew why they were here. He was old enough to not be ignorant.

“You go to my father?”

Lord Frost scowled. “Who told you that, lad?”

Not all of Frost’s household was so committed to their lord’s actions.

“Nobody,” Willam lied easily. “just rumors', my lord.”

Frost didn’t seem pleased, eyes darting to his son.

“I will end this business and return boy,” he forced a brave look to his face.

“It’ll be fine Will,” Cedric placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll see. We Are Winter”

Willam didn’t believe them. He knew his father, even at the age of five-and-ten he knew, it was not in Brandon Starks nature to forgive steel drawn against him or his kin. Willam knew this. How could Frost not?

“Send me home,” Willam mustered his courage, knuckles white against his swords grip as if the steel could help him. A sword had a funny way of giving men courage. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Lord Frost looked down at him now from his horse, armored and saddled.

The man’s runed sword scabbard seemed to have an aura of dread about it…

“Your father won’t listen Will,” Cedric’s smile faltered only briefly, but Willam saw it clear.

“Take me with you my lord! I can stop this-“

“No,” Lord Frost’s voice broke through the air, cold and brittle like cracking ice. “No, lad.”

There was no arguing with that. None dared argue with Frost, except perhaps Will’s father.

Frost rode off to war, leaving his Stark ward behind in the courtyard as dread washed over him. He fought back the tears that threatened to betray him, although it was hard. He’d always been stubborn, even then.

 _“They’re not coming back,”_ a voice in him seemed to suggest. He ran from it, sword falling to the courtyard stone with a clang as he bolted for his chambers, to his bed, to some childish sense of safety.

Willam Stark laid on his feathered bed lost in his thoughts as he often found himself doing of late. He’d been a ward of House Frost since he could hold a sword, sent by his grandfather to ease tensions with the promise of a marriage pact when he came of age. _“Time flew,”_ Will thought to himself. _“Grandfather passes, now father starts a war to bring me home – to break a pact over petty grievance simply because he could.”_

Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Brash. Brandon the Brute.

“All these and more,” the young wolf Prince muttered aloud.

His father wanted to take him home.

_“Frostfell is my home...”_

Another voice broke him from his worries, softer and sweet as honey.

“Will?” She came, washing away the wolfs fears like a wave crashing against rocks.

“Come in,” he said too eagerly. “I was just thinking…”

The girl that approached was a year older than Willam but stood a foot shorter, with soft and flawless snow-white hair that flowed to her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice with its warmth.

“Thinking?” The girl smirked teasingly. “Careful now Will, you’ll hurt yourself.”

He scoffed. “All I do is think these days, Elly.”

He couldn’t seem to stop the thinking, that was the damn issue.

“Our fathers will talk,” She sat beside him on the bed, smiling still. “it’ll be okay.”

Willam merely looked at her. Gods, she was beautiful – he’d felt happier simply being near the girl. All the worry seemed to melt away. _“Isn’t that enough, father?”_ He thought, looking into her glinting sapphire eyes.

A hundred thoughts assaulted him, as they often did.

_“Isn’t being happy enough?!”_

_“You’ll never be together!”_

_“Take her and leave!”_

_“Leave this place!”_

“Will?” She brought him back from his thoughts, as only she could.

“Sorry,” he apologized. He couldn’t rightly say for what…

“Allow me,” His betrothed leaned in, pressing her lips to his; not for the first time.

They’d been betrothed since they were children, growing up together in her father’s hall, closer and closer still; although the kissing was frowned upon her father alone smiled. Whatever the lord’s faults, he loved his children.

Will had come to consider the man more a father than his own blood, in truth.

“I’m scared Will,” she admitted as they broke apart reluctantly.

He was too. Since his grandfather had died, everything had collapsed. Pride was a frightful thing.

“What if my father doesn’t come back?” She asked, fear in her eyes; that broke Willam’s heart to see. “What if they fall Will? What if your father doesn’t listen to them? What if we can’t be together?!“

What if? What if? If only she knew how those words had plagued him, haunted him even.

“Marry me.” It seemed so simple now, why hadn’t Lord Frost seen it?!

“What?” His love blinked, wiping away a treasonous tear from her cheek.

“Damn them all,” Willam snarled, his courage building. “Damn them all; to the very depths!”

She smiled and gods be damned, the act spurred him on like nothing else could.

“Elssa Frost,” he held her hand and smiled, near pleading. “Will you have me?”

She flung herself at him, crying as she released the words “Yes, Yes, Yes!” and smothered her betrothed, uncaring of the consequences. She’d become Elssa Stark and they’d all have to accept it. Or so she thought…

They’d say the words among themselves, with no witnesses if need be; besides the gods – and they would be enough. In hindsight, perhaps there was a reason Lord Frost hadn’t simply gone ahead with the wedding when she’d first flowered? Perhaps the old lord had his reasons? Perhaps it was a fool’s hope, desperate and doomed?

Willam didn’t care. The two kissed and fell together, lost in their love, blind to all else.

He was happy. Wasn’t that alone enough?

* * *

The dawn came, like any other, but this seemed brighter to Willam with his new wife laying aside him sleeping peacefully. He laid there, smiling, happy; all his worries melted away from his thoughts as the morning sun began to creep through the window. _"Your father won’t accept this meekly."_ Will’s mind seemed to taunt him as joy gave way to worry, as it too often did. He’d made his choice, however. There was no turning back.

"My prince," Elssa interrupted him and rolled over onto her back. She looked up at Willam with a warm smile.

"Princess," Willam said the first thing that came to mind, moving to kiss her.

"Princess," She giggled. "I like it."

"Using me for my title, are we?"

"You have other uses." Pulling him in for another kiss, the prince was clay in her hands.

Willam had lost himself and he didn't wish to leave, deciding in that moment that no matter the future, they’d face it together.

He smirked, leaning over to plant a kiss on her neck. "Such as?"

"Prince Wi-" A guardsman entered the room, almost immediately diverting his eyes as Elssa dragged the covers up to her chest to cover herself; panic etched on her blushing face.

"What?!" Willam growled furiously, less concerned with being caught than being interrupted…

"Lord Frost summons you," The guard made eye contact with the lady. "You too, m'lady…"

"This had best be fucking important," Willam muttered under his breath.

“It’s urgent,” the guards eyes lingered too long on Elssa for Will’s liking. “His Lordship is-“

"Wait outside!" Willam commanded with a snarl.

The guard scurried away eagerly, bowing lazily.

"Father has returned?" Elssa asked, concerned and still holding on tightly to the covers.

"I suppose," Willam sighed as he left the bed to get dressed.

"The last time I was dragged from bed so early..."

"Yes?" Willam asked, half dressed as he watched Elssa get out of bed herself and walk across the room to him.

She gave him a kiss before picking up her own clothes. "The rebellion..."

"War." The word echoed in his head. He'd been too young himself when his grandfather took his father and brothers off to war against Lord Frost and his supporters. It was a short and bloody affair, that led to his wardship here.

In an odd way, he was grateful – without the rebellion his betrothal to Elssa may never have came about.

"Father will be angry," Elssa said, putting on her last piece of clothing.

Willam laughed bitterly, placing a kiss on her forehead. "It’s my father I worry about Elly.” Without further words he opened the door to the chambers, letting her walk through before him with a simple "Princess's first."

It was a short walk to Frost's Court and along the way many of the servants whispered among themselves no doubt thinking rather poorly of their lady as she passed them by, although they dare not say – the fear in their eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Something was wrong. All the nagging doubts in Will’s head whispered of some danger.

“Sister,” a voice far too young to be Lord Frost greeted them as they entered the great hall of Frostfell. “You’re late, and you bring the Stark dog. How fortunate, I suppose…”

The boy in his father’s seat looked broken, tired, his eyes bloodshot.

“Where’s father?” Elssa asked, confused, stepping forward towards her twin.

Eric Frost sat uneasy in his father’s seat. “Step away from the Stark, dear sister.”

“Willam?” She asked, eyes darting to her side.

“Step away Elssa...”

“They were together m’lord!” The guardsman from before bravely stepped forward. “I was sent for the Stark but found them together m’lord, did me duty as you bid me and brought them to-“

“Together?” Eric scowled, his eyes demanding an explanation.

The guard hesitated. “I found the lady abed with-“

“You dare lie about my sister!?”

“I swear m’lord, before the gods I do, the Stark was mounting-“

Elssa stepped forward, brave as ever. “I love him, brother!”

“And I her!” Willam stepped beside her, taking her hand in his and holding tight.

A silence washed over the hall and something boiled in young Eric’s eyes.

“Stark lies,” the young Frost muttered angrily. “all of it damn lies…”

“Eric,” Willam forced a smile. “You know I love her; you know me brother. We-“

“No!” Eric Frost near jumped from his throne. “My brother is fucking dead, Stark!”

“What?”

“Brother?” Elssa asked, pleading now.

Something softened in Eric’s eyes. “They’re gone Elly,” his voice cracked, boiling anger giving way to sorrow. “All of them. Stark butchered them like fucking livestock! Father… Cedric…”

“No,” Elssa shook her head. “You’re mistaken, brother – these are rumours! Lies!”

Willam said nothing, drowning in his silence. Brandon the Bloody. Brandon the Butcher. Gods damn him…

“A soldier arrived at dawn,” Eric explained, slumping back into his father’s seat. “beaten and bloodied he carried word of the slaughter – along with fathers head in a basket. He had a message. Stark sends his regards…”

“It’s true, my lady.” The castellan of Frostfell spoke sadly, his head bowed.

“No,” Elssa muttered again and again weeping into Willam’s shoulder.

“Your lovers’ father will arrive shortly to finish what he started…”

“I can end this,” Willam offered between the sobs of his love. “just let me speak to him Eric.”

Eric Frost didn’t snarl or shout at the offer. He laughed a hollow empty laughter devoid of joy.

“This began with blood, Stark,” He began scornfully. “It’ll end in blood. This is how it has always been, how it should be. If your father wants my damn head as he took my kin’s then he can come, and fucking take it!”

“Eric,” Willam pleaded. “Please brother, listen!“

“You are not my brother, Stark!”

A subtle nod was all it took for the guards to seize him.

“Willam Stark.” Eric leaned forward on his seat. “Your family stands accused of murder, deceit, and high treason against the people you swore to protect!” The young Lord Frost looked to his weeping sister and scowled.

“I’m not responsible for my father’s actions Frost, this is madness!”

“And you stand accused of seducing my sister!”

“No!” Elssa snapped from her stupor. “He didn’t-“

“I name you a rapist dog!” Eric decreed as his guards hurled Willam to the floor with a sharp crack against marbled tiles. “Traitor !”, He continued his list of crimes, a boundless fury in the doing. “If your father wants a head, he’ll have one!”

“Stop this!” Elssa screamed, held back by the same guardsman that had found her abed before.

“My lord, you cannot harm the Prince!“ The castles castellan pleaded with the young Frost to no effect.

“Come the dawn,” Eric Frost smiled a broken smile. “You will pay with your life…”

Willam felt another sharp pain, then darkness as he was dragged from the hall unconscious.

Eric Frost slumped back in his father’s chair and sighed, his sister still sobbing and wailing and clawing at her guard. He should’ve been mad at her, for laying with the wolf; but he felt nothing. It all just felt… empty… was this what defeat tasted like? Had his father felt this way after his rebellion? Was it how he felt before the end? It tasted bitter. He didn’t like it, not one bit.

“Take my sister to her room and lock the damn door, she’s not to leave – and nobody is to enter!”

A warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the coldest winter. It silenced the hall, aside from Elssa’s sobs as she was led away screaming obscenities at her brother.

“Winter Is Coming,” Eric muttered from his weirwood throne.

Stark was here. There would be no mercy, he knew, only death. Only winter…

“So be it,” the young Frost decided. He stood from his fathers’ seat tall and proud.

The blood of Winter itself was said to flow through the veins of the Frost’s. Their legends claimed they descended from the offspring of the Night’s King and his beautiful yet cold Queen. Eric didn’t know how much truth there were to those tales, truth be told, but if true the Night’s King was a Stark and that made him half Stark…

Would that make him a kinslayer? Would the gods curse him for his vengeance?

In the moment, the young lord couldn’t care less for the will of gods.

“We Are Winter!” Lord Frost cried out, unsheathing his blade to rally his men.

He didn’t know the truth of legends, but he knew one thing…

Winter was Here.

* * *

Harooooooooooooooooooooo, the Stark warhorn blew cold as winter winds. King Brandon’s banners flew proudly outside the walls of Frostfell daring the poor fools hauled up inside to come face them.

The siege had lasted far longer than they’d have liked. They’d been at this far too long for comfort.

“The boy won’t open his gates father,” a younger Stark offered with a weary sigh.

“Have faith little brother,” another replied, smirking wide. “Frost’s have no patience; and this one’s a child…”

“That child has our little brother, Rodrik…”

A valid point, but still. “He wouldn’t dare harm the lad.”

Edrik Stark scoffed at his twin’s confidence, his elder by mere minutes; ever confident – never doubtful. The perfect Prince. And yet, their little brother was being held captive by a child whose father and brother they had just killed…

“The whims of an angry child lord shouldn’t be ignored, brother…”

Rodrik rolled his eyes. “Will’s the lads only hope, he’ll not hurt our brother – and even if he’s foolish enough to try it his advisors would counsel reason. Father isn’t without his mercies.”

Now that was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks. Mercy? What a jest.

“I pray you’re right brother,” Edrik sighed, looking out at the siege lines.

Harooooooooooooooooooooo, the warhorn sounded again, taunting the castles defenders.

“Well I’ll be dammed…”

“You owe me a gold wolf little brother,” Rodrik smirked as Frostfell’s gates opened wide.

Frost trumpets answered, da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA they answered, brazen and defiant, seeming somewhat smaller, more anxious. A faint cry of “WE ARE WINTER!” rang true as the black and white banners of Frost rode through their portcullis with all the fury of Winter. The twin Prince’s had to admire the child lord’s bravery.

“A fools hope,” Edrik shook his head at the action.

“No hope at all,” His brother smiled at the slaughter to come.

Prince Rodrik raised his hand up high and with one swift motion, made a signal.

As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arching up from the rear, where Stark archers stood flanking the siege lines. The Knights of Frost broke into a gallop, shouting as they came, but the Stark arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.

Rodrik mounted his armored destrier and drew a fine castle-forged blade adorned with diamonds.

“Winter is Coming lads!” He began to rally his mounted guard, in their proud grey and whites; eager for battle and to protect their Prince’s. “Let’s finish what we started and end these traitorous bastards here and now!”

“For your Prince Willam!” Edrik shouted from atop his own steed.

“For Winterhold!” Rodrik reared his horse up, then galloped headlong towards the clashing of steel.

The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. A crescent of Frost spearmen had formed ahead of them, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the white weirwood of House Frost. King Brandon was the first on them, leading a wedge of armored mounts, half of whom shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. "To me!" Prince Rodrik commanded, gaining a following of brave horsemen that saw the battered shieldwall as a weak point, the fools broken and preoccupied with King Brandon, who had lost his mount but continued on foot. “To my father!” Rodrik cried out as he rode hard. “To the King!”

The charge was a success as the makeshift Frost line balanced on the brink of chaos.

"About time you showed up!" Brandon spat at his son, cleaving a Frost levy practically in half with his axe.

Rodrik had planned a witty response but found himself engaged. "Shields!" He cried as a flight of arrows descended on them; no doubt from the Frostfell battlements, but they fell on Frost and Stark alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh as Rodrik was thrown from his horse when the beast was struck with a number of the arrows. The hedge of spikes crumbled, the Frostmen reeling back under the impact of assault, flights of arrows and not least, the handful of men that had passed their wall during the first clash. "I fucking hate archers," Rodrik muttered a curse as he got to his feet and went to pull an arrow from his thigh, slamming said arrowhead into the exposed neck of a Frostman before lopping the head of a spear that came for him, raking his blade across a third foe on his backslash.

"For my Father!" A voice rang out. "For Cedric and Frostfell!" Rodrik spun to see the sight of a well armored Frost knight thundering towards his father, swinging the spiked ball of a morning star around his head like a child wielding a toy. King Brandon swung his battle-axe in an arch at the approaching rider, slicing off the forelegs of the stallion with surprising ease to send the beast screaming into the mud and its rider even further away, landing on the ground with a rather amusing thud. The rider struggled in the mud as he tried to recover from his fall.

“Brave boy,” King Brandon commented, unfazed; bloodied axe resting casually on his shoulder.

"Do you yield?!" Edrik loomed over the Frostman. A brave man, Rodrik thought mockingly as he dismounted to limp up to his chivalrous little brother and uncaring father. “The battle is lost. Yield and live…”

Looking around the battlefield Rodrik could see that his brother was right. Frost’s charge, while an inspiring show of courage and stubbornness, had been crushed utterly. And he thought the last battle had been a slaughter…

"A battlefield is a queer place for a nap,” Rodrik couldn’t help but mock the young rider.

“Fuck you, Stark!”

That made Rodrik laugh, this one had a bravery bordering on madness.

“You’ve balls lad,” his father seemed to agree. “but this is over. I’m not here to slaughter beat dogs.”

The sound of hooves coming up behind him made Rodrik whirl, though any fears faded at seeing the grey colors of his guardsmen – clearly upset at his reckless charge into danger. “Prince Rodrik, you’re wounded!”

He shrugged. “Naught but a scratch, Greystark; you worry too much.”

The man in question smiled. “It’s my duty to worry, Roddy.”

“Don’t call me that…”

The laughter was short lived.

“Die!” The rider, up from the mud, swung at Brandon Stark with a fine dagger.

“Your Grace!” Grey steel blocked the man, disarming him and severing several of his fingers with great ease, sending the dagger and fingers to the mud as the young man screamed bloody murder and held his hand in horror.

“Little shit tried to kill me,” King Brandon scoffed at the notion.

“Who are you-“

Removing the helm revealed snow-white hair and eyes filled with hatred.

“I am justice!”

“No,” Brandon replied simply. “You’re a Frost, though the name escapes me…”

“Elrin I think, father?” Edrik offered, unsure in all honestly; and uncaring.

“Eric!” The wounded boy screamed his name. “Eric Frost, you bastards!”

King Brandon eyed the boy. Young, about his son’s age, and clearly at his wits end; if the suicidal charge weren’t proof enough – what the boy hoped to achieve with it he couldn’t say. A fool’s courage or a boy’s courage, all the same thing truly.

“I’d ask you surrender your castle,” Brandon eyed the wide-open gates of Frostfell with contempt. “but it appears to already be mine. So instead, hand over my son and your judgement will be swift Eric Frost.”

Something dark flashed in the boy’s eyes, Rodrik saw; eyeing him carefully since he’d lunged before.

“Look to my hall, Brandon Stark!” Eric Frost snarled, smirking through his pain as blood leaked from his severed fingers. “You wanted your wolf cub on my fathers’ throne? So be it, you have your fucking wish!”

Rodrik’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean, boy?”

King Brandon stared blankly at the smiling face of the Last Frost.

“Father?” Rodrik asked eagerly, anger building in him.

The King said nothing, an emotionless look in his grey stormy eyes.

Rodrik scoffed. “I’ll bring Will back myself!”

The Crown Prince grabbed the nearest horse despite his leg wound and rode hard for the great hall of Frostfell with his brother close behind, down and under the portcullis into the courtyard of House Frost.

“Will’s fine,” Edrik assured his brother as they dismounted in the courtyard.

“If he isn’t-“

“He is,” Edrik once again assured.

“You don’t know that!” Rodrik snapped. “If they’ve hurt him, I’ll-“

Screaming grabbed their attention, a woman’s wail, short and sharp from the keeps main tower overlooking the courtyard. “Gods,” one of the Greycloaks muttered at the sight of a woman falling from a high window.

She made a sickening crunch as she landed, flat down upon the cobbled stone of the castle’s courtyard.

“Fuck me,” Rodrik snarled, refusing to divert his eyes as others did.

“The hair brother,” Edrik pointed out, noting among the mess of blood and guts were the blood-stained strands of otherwise flawless snow-white hair. “No mistaking it…”

“One less Frost in the world,” Rodrik growled, storming into the keep.

Edrik wavered at the sight of the girl. Why had she done this? To die in such a manner…

“My Prince?” One of the Greycloaks asked him, clear concern etched on their face.

“Find something to cover the girl’s body,” he offered with a heavy heart. “She was of noble birth…”

The cry that followed was louder than the Frost girl’s scream, though no less daunting; as his brother’s roar was enough to wake the dead ten times over – he rang out atop his lungs and near shook Frostfell’s foundations.

“BROTHER!” Rodrik Stark bellowed, calling him; or so Edrik thought.

He and the Greycloaks stormed into the Great Hall to a sight that caught Edrik’s breath in his throat. “No,” he muttered; wide-eyed. “No, they wouldn’t have… this is…”

“BASTARDS!” Prince Rodrik roared, raging and throwing whatever he could find.

“Brother…”

“I’LL KILL THEM ALL!”

“By the gods,” Edrik almost fell to his knees at the sight.

Sat atop the weirwood throne of House Frost’s lords was Prince Willam Stark, dressed in House Stark finery, exactly where Eric Frost claimed they’d find him, only minus a head on his shoulders.

“We kill them all!” Rodrik grabbed his twin and held him with a storm in his eyes. “All of them Eddy, every last fucking bastard in this castle dies today, do you hear me brother? All of them!”

Edrik had ever been the counter to his brother’s rage, ever the calming hand, but this?

There was a time and place for honor and chivalry. This? This was not it.

“All of them Roddy,” he growled low. “We’ll kill them all.”

The doors swung wide as King Brandon stormed into the hall, halting dead at the sight before him. His eldest sons stood in an embrace, his heir in tears, while the younger held him and Willam Stark sat in Frost’s chair. Headless. Dead.

“Happy now Stark?!” The captive Eric dragged along to answer for his ramblings taunted.

Rodrik eyed Frost across his brothers’ shoulder, and he growled more akin to a wolf than man.

“He died slow; I’m told.” Eric Frost smiled wide. “How does it feel Stark? His blood is on YOUR hands!”

The King said nothing at first, eyes empty; staring down into the Frost boy's broken soul.

“You wanted blood?” Brandon Stark asked with cold emptiness. “So be it! I’ll fucking drown you in it, Lord Frost, for my son; I’ll see that you fucking DROWN IN IT!”

“I don’t fear death,” Eric chuckled. “you’ve taken everything from me!”

“Butcher them all!” King Brandon decreed with a raw fury. “From the soldiers to the babes in the cribs, slaughter them all; and drain their blood into a fucking barrel big enough to fit a grown man!”

The average man-at-arms hesitated, but the Greycloaks obeyed without question.

“You’re a tyrant!” Eric spat at his king. “Nothing but a bloody tyrant!”

The carnage was swift, the captives brought together in the courtyard and one by one the Greycloaks were stained crimson with innocent blood; from servant to guardsman none were to be spared. Until one spoke.

“Your Grace!” One begged louder than the others, dressed in finery; he seemed important enough to hear – though his face was beaten and bloody. It hadn’t shut the man up at all.

Brandon didn’t speak a word to the man, merely a glare; but he hadn’t ordered his silence either.

“Please, stop this madness!” The man begged. “These are innocents!”

“Innocents!?” Prince Rodrik snarled at the notion.

“You murdered our little brother,” Edrik glared at the man. “You’ll find no mercy here.”

“No!” The man hastily shouted, then realized his error as Rodrik punched him across the jaw and sent him to the floor. “My Prince, please, I serve House Stark and-“

Another punch and another, and another for good measure.

“Rodrik, that’s enough – let the fool speak.”

“P- Prin- Prince-“ The man managed through his injuries. “W- Will.”

“You dare speak his name!” Rodrik punched the man yet again, knocking out some of his teeth.

“Willam?” King Brandon asked, eyes darting like a beast stalking prey.

“L- Lives!” The man managed, spitting blood out and groaning in pain.

The courtyard halted their executions and awaited King Brandon’s decree.

“I was castellan,” the beaten man managed. “I defied Lord Eric…”

“What? You fucking traitor!” Eric shouted at the man, only to be silenced by the butt of a Greycloaks spear.

The castellan found his voice, swallowing a mouthful of blood and remaining on his knees. “Lord Eric demanded Prince Willam killed, Your Grace; but I knew it folly – so I hid him in the dungeons and told no-one!”

“The body in the hall?” Brandon asked, daring to hope against hope.

“A stable boy Your Grace, dressed in Prince Willam’s clothes. I swear it!”

“SEARCH THE FUCKING CELLS!” King Brandon bellowed atop his voice, louder than even his sons.

Rodrik was off in a heartbeat with his men to search the cells, leaving his father and brother in the courtyard with the smell of blood and shit, terrified smallfolk and an unconscious Eric Frost flat out on the stone.

“Do we have enough, cousin?” King Brandon looked to one of his lords, dressed in a fine but bloodied surcoat that boasted a black anchor on white. “For the barrel? It should be enough…”

“Far more than enough, Your Grace.” The lord nodded grimly. “Lot of blood in a man, less in a woman; even less in a boy. You’re certain about this action though Bran? It’s extreme even for you…“

“No less than the bastard deserves.”

“If Willam is alive, father?” Edrik asked hesitantly, hopeful even.

“It doesn’t matter,” the King dismissed. “The rat aimed to murder my son!”

Winter had never been a forgiving thing.

* * *

The crack to the skull had hurt something dreadful, even now; the pain taunted him like a sharp knife.

It was dark when he’d awoken, though comfy for a cell; it seemed someone didn’t want him to be bitter about his imprisonment. “They cracked me over the head and threw me in a fucking dungeon,” Willam spoke aloud to himself spitefully. “Hard not to be bitter, no? How long has it been? A week? Longer? I’m talking to myself already…”

What was Eric thinking? Had it been some ploy to scare him, with the threat of taking his head? He’d grown up with the youngest Frost and had never seen him like that before… he was wild, scared, angry, like he’d never seen before.

“Well,” the voice in his head offered sagely. “your father did cut his father and brother up into tiny pieces…”

“I doubt it was tiny pieces,” Willam replied aloud with a groan. It hurt to think.

He didn’t know how everything had gone to shit so quickly, but he blamed himself for it all. He should’ve stopped Lord Frost, or convinced Cedric, or his father, or snuck out of the castle with Elly, or done anything at all.

How long had he been down here? It was only a week or two, he thought; surely not longer?

He was hungry, if a growling stomach was any indication. The food had stopped some time ago.

“Elly is going to be upset. I’m sorry love…”

“-every fucking cell!” Will heard a voice echo through the halls but dismissed it as madness.

“Excellent, another voice in my head. I’ve finally gone insane…”

“In here!” A man yelled, standing in front of his cell now with a hopeful expression.

“A Greycloak?” Will asked aloud, unbelieving.

“My Prince,” The man smiled. “Please, hold still; we’ll have you out in moments!”

Huh. If the Greycloaks were here, so was father…

“Will!” A bigger man shoved the Greycloak aside and slammed open the cell doors.

“Roddy?” Willam managed a course reply as the man hugged him tightly and refused to let go.

“By the gods you’re alive!” Rodrik held his brother in a vice.

“Is father-“

“Have they hurt you lad?!” His brother demanded with a scowl.

“No,” Willam lied easily. “Just a wounded pride is all.”

“We’ll kill them all little brother,” Rodrik swore with a weary breath. “I promise!”

Yes, because more bloodletting was the answer to everything. Hadn’t there been enough?

“Eric is just angry brother; he lost his father and-“

“Eric?!” Rodrik spat the name. “That little shit tried to knife father!”

“He what?” Willam found that surprising – Eric was never the fighter his brother was…

“No matter,” Rodrik lifted his little brother to his feet. “come. Father and Ed are waiting.”

The courtyard was a bloody affair when Willam laid his eyes on it, more blood than he’d ever witnessed; more a butcher’s shop than a castles courtyard – stained red and smelling of death. Willam gagged on the stench on reflex alone, bending over to empty his stomach only to find it empty of anything but an acid that burnt his throat.

There was a barrel in the center of the courtyard with a pair of legs sticking out of it.

“First time’s always the worst little brother,” Rodrik offered with a comforting smile.

Eyes scanned the courtyard as Willam adjusted to the sight, bodies everywhere; barely any spared his father’s wrath. “Father?” He called out loud, the tall near seven-foot man storming over to pick him up like a ragdoll; embracing him and swinging him about with abandon - surprising the starved prince to no end. This was... unlike the man he knew as father....

“My boy!” Brandon cheered, echoed by a cheer from the Stark men present.

“Hello Father,” Will managed a muffled response.

“Your Prince lives!” King Brandon shouted for all to hear, earning another wave of cheers.

All this blood and death for him? He felt sick to his core thinking on it…

“Where’s Elly?” It came to mind, and it shamed him he hadn’t asked before. In his shock he’d forgotten to ask for her.

“Who?” His father asked, only half listening with a smile on his face.

“Elssa,” Willam managed to find his courage. “My betrothed. Where is she?”

“Ah, the girl…”

Willam narrowed his eyes.

“Eddy,” He opted to seek his most reliable brother. “Where is she?”

Edrik Stark eyed his little brother with hurt in his eyes.

“Ed,” Willam asked again. “Where is-“

“Dead.” It was his father who answered.

What? No. No, that was…

“Impossible,” Willan shook his head. “She was safe – Eric would never have hurt her!”

“He didn’t hurt her,” His father answered. “She flung herself from her window. Foolish girl…”

“No,” Willam refused to hear it. “You’re lying! You never wanted us together!”

King Brandon scowled. “I’d planned to see you wed, on the contrary boy.”

“It’s true,” Rodrik added. “you were to marry her and be Lord of Frostfell little brother.”

“I’m sorry Will,” came Edrik, the only voice that seemed genuine to him.

“No!” Willam shouted, backing away from his kin. “She’s alive, you’re all lying!”

The youngest Stark found himself backed up against the tower wall. His breath caught in his chest, as if a horse were sat on it, suffocating him. A thousand thoughts rang loud as thunder against his skull.

“I’m sorry little pup,” Edrik said, as only Edrik could. “I saw her fall. There was nothing to be done Will.”

This wasn’t happening.

It was lies. All of it!

“Greif does strange things to the weak,” His father added, wholly uncaring.

 _“The dutiful one wouldn’t lie,”_ the voice in Will’s head counselled, turning to his brother now.

“Where is she Ed!?”

His brother hesitated, his eyes darting to the Stark banner that covered a body in the courtyard; all soaked a deep crimson red and courted by flies. It called out to Willam now with an aura of dread.

“She’s dead,” the voice came again, louder this time; almost smug.

“No,” Willam muttered as he walked over without realizing it.

No, No, No, NO, GODS NO!

 _“I told you so,”_ the voice mocked him with a shrug.

He flung the red-stained banner aside and fell to his knees.

 _“Dead,”_ the voice seemed to beam at being proven right. She was bloody, her clothes torn, her body broken; but it was his love. The voice’s smile grew wide at the sight as tears built in Willam’s eyes. _“Dead, Dead, Dead.”_

The world grew dark as Willam Stark cradled his betrothed, with her hair between his fingers.

“Will?” Another voice echoed in the dark, his brother, or perhaps his father?

It seemed unimportant. The voices were muffled and dull.

 _“She’s gone,”_ the voice offered sagely. _“You’re alone.”_

Willam screamed with all his heart, as if to roar at cruel gods.

“Hang in there pup,” Edrik had since knelt by his brother and held him close. “It’ll be okay.”

 _“It’s just you and me now,”_ the voice offered; glad and smug.

The last Willam heard clearly. It only served to anger.

“We’re going home,” King Brandon the Bloody declared coldly.

It seemed that hindsight was indeed a bitch; for all the things he’d have done differently none would haunt Willam like the sight of Elssa’s broken body. She’d thrown herself through that high window out of grief, the loss of her father, brother, home and it seemed she thought; her love – for she’d thought Willam dead. He'd come to wish he'd died there. At least he’d be with her again.

In some ways, the boy Elssa Frost loved did indeed die with her in that courtyard.

Life rarely works out as you’d expect.


	3. The Outlands

_“Will you still swear, knowing that I expect you to lie?” – Prince Willam Stark_

Two years passed since the Fall of Frostfell. Prince Willam fled from his family not long after his return to Winterhold, disgusted by his own father; having learnt an ugly truth that broke an already brittle mind, he’d stowed away in the hull of a merchant galley heading for the outlands on the edge of his father’s kingdom and escaped into an uncertain fate, wandering across the vast grey outlands in search of an outlining village. The Sunset Kingdom’s authority didn’t spread to all, as many settlers and exiles or criminals had forsaken Stark rule over the years and ventured off by themselves to form small colonies deemed savage and of ill-repute by the Kings in Winterhold.

It was one such colony village that Willam found himself in again two years past his first venture into the wastes, fighting with steel; for the outlands were full of outlaws and worse. Life here was harsh at the best of times.

Steel sang and smoke filled the air as fires burnt brightly in the dark.

“Wraith!” Aedan cried out; his eyes wide with fear as a sword arched downward, moonlight reflecting off the blade as it fell in a flash to end his existence. He closed his eyes and prayed to the gods.

The blow never came. Steel, then the sound of gurgling blood.

“Queer place for a nap, little brother.”

He opened his eyes to see a hooded man, smiling wide; with fine steel in hand.

“Brother-“

“No time,” Wraith pulled him to his feet. “We’ve company…”

Aedan got to his feet as sure enough three; no, four men arrived. Raiders and bandits, the very foe they’d been hunting. “Let’s take them,” he spoke, swinging his sword as to test its weight.

“Gladly!” Wraith decreed, stepping forward in a heartbeat to fling his dagger at one bandit; landing at his chest and causing the man to stagger with a grunt of pain – all the opening he needed. With a dash he cut through a coming spear shaft then a throat for good measure.

Men made ugly sounds as they choked...

“Behind!” Aedan called out to alert his brother.

The Wraith turned, blocking the high blow with ease before piercing the fools’ stomach.

“Sneaky,” Wraith snarled at his bleeding foe. “Almost caught me there…”

“Bastard wanderer,” the foe spat blood. “by what right do-“

The man’s throat was cut. His empty words died with him.

“Charming,” Wraith sighed, turning his eyes in a flash.

Aedan was still handling his own as riders arrived to witness the young man finish his quarry with a swift parry and bated breath. “Brother?” He asked, sheathing his blade. “Is that all of them?”

“Aye,” Wraith turned to eye the riders. “Almost…”

The riders clad in blacks and greys cheered as one dragged a single bandit to his knees.

“Who’s this then?”

“Morgan Blackhand,” one of the riders explained as he threw said man to the dirt.

“Is that so?” Wraith knelt to look him in the eye. Dark brown eyes, not black. His arm was badly scarred and burnt true but not iron as the tall tales told. They spoke more of a demon than a man, but Wraith supposed the same could be said of the stories about him. He and Blackhand were only men in truth. “It seems tales of your caliber have been grossly exaggerated Blackhand…”

Morgan spat at the cold desert sand. “And what of yours, Wraith?”

“What of mine?” He smiled simply, a hollow thing to any that knew him well; and few did.

“A ghost they call you,” Morgan eyed his foe. “quick as winter winds, untouchable, invincible…”

“No one is invincible.”

Morgan scoffed at that nugget of so-called wisdom.

“All I see is a boy,” he smirked wide. “playing at being a hero…”

“And I see a dead man…”

“Aye,” the once famous and feared Blackhand laughed as only one without a care could laugh. “that I may be boy. You and I are destined for the fall. Will they sing of us, I wonder?”

This one was as mad as the reports suggested. That much about the tales seemed to ring true.

“I don’t know,” Wraith admitted. “nor do I care.”

He raised his bloody steel high and readied a single swing.

“WAIT!”

Morgan Blackhand held the smirk of madness on his lips.

“You owe me my final words, boy!“

Ah, traditions, ever a nuisance; but who was he to deny them?

“You’re supposed to have a blade of thin air, no? That is the tale.” Blackhand sneered to mock him, as if picking apart his story would cause some pain. “Use your blade, boy, it’ll make for a greater story!”

He didn’t like using it. Truth was the blade didn’t like him very much at all.

“As you wish,” Wraith muttered regardless, tired, reaching up over his shoulder with a gloved hand to the scabbard across his back. The blade gleamed an eerie blue as it stretched free of its confines.

“Your time will come.” Blackhand smiled wide, the sole listener to a grand joke only he knew was being told. “Upon tides of blood it’ll come for you Wraith! I have seen it! They have shown me! THE LONE WOLF DI-“

Morgan Blackhand’s life ended with a flick of the Wraith’s wrist, a clean cut removing his head at the neck; freeing a black vapour from the man’s neck that seeped out – vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

“Who showed you?” Wraith absently asked the corpse. It didn’t answer back.

The voice in his head muttered a single word. _“K’Dath.”_

Wraith clenched his fist, knowing without checking that his glove was brittle with cold; frost lingering and already melting as he sheathed the cold blade back into the confines of its runed scabbard. “It’s done,” he sighed before returning to his joyful mask. Those gathered stood in silence in the aftermath, uncertainty clinging to the air since the darkness had seeped from Morgan's neck like a fog...

“Well done brother!” Aedan smiled confidently, to sunder the lingering tension.

“Wraith!” The riders cheered for him. “Wraith, Wraith, Wraith!”

They cheered for his moniker, for his actions, for the death of a madman that had terrorized the outlands for too long; but he felt nothing for the deed. If anything, he’d only been rewarded with a sense of dread.

“Come,” Aedan snapped him from his wandering thoughts. “father will be waiting for our return.”

Wraith gave a nod, offering fake smiles to the surviving villagers who gave his riders food and supplies out of gratitude or fear or perhaps both. They were heroes in a manner, aye, but even heroes needed to eat. They'd take only what was fair payment. Time passed as it always did in the Outlands, very slowly, but it passed; though just a little quieter for their efforts.

At the end of things, Wraith supposed moments of quiet were the reason they fought at all.

Still. Their true prey was ever elusive and, perhaps, deadlier than simple mortal men.

* * *

The night was dark and full of all manner of terrible things, men least among them, as three scouts sat at the heart of a vast canyon while an even vaster sandstorm battered at the canyon walls; like a siege few would hope to weather. Their campfire burnt weakly, struggling to remain alight with what pitiful fuel the trio could scavenge. It was not the dark they needed to fear however, nor the wolves or wild beasts that prowled the Outlands great grey waste – for more cunning things hunted them.

Things that cared nothing for the storm that laid siege to these walls of rock and sand...

Legends lurked at the far corners of this world, there for those brave or fool enough to face them.

“At the end of the damn world we are,” one of the scouts muttered angrily as he tossed a dry twig onto the fire. “trapped between rocks and sand, with what pitiful food His Bloody Grace gave us; searching for-“

His companion threw a twig at his head, earning him a snarl.

“Searching for a ghost!”

“They wouldn’t send an army for a ghost Dex…”

“No,” the one called Dex replied with a scowl. “they’d send scouts, like us!”

“The King-“

“Know what we are to that man Alex?!”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Why waste your breath complaining, old man?”

“We’re nothing!” Old Dex spat, his eyes tired and his wrinkles clear in the light of their ever-weakening fire. “Less than nothing. Dirt. Waste. Expendable! We’ve been sent out here to die for nothing…”

“Scared of a little sandstorm old man?” Alex smiled, his voice taunting and cocky in its youth. This one thought himself cleaver.

“Keep your mouth shut you fucking brat!”

“There are stories…”

Alex and Dex eyed their third companion.

“In the sand, they say. It’s-“

“Bedtime stories?” Alex laughed at the notion, ever arrogant.

“I agree with the pup for once,” Dex hated to admit that.

The canyon walls made the wind whistle and howl as it laid siege.

“There’s no monsters in the dark,” Dex began with a roll of his tired eyes, looking to the youngest in their group with a bored expression. “Men is all we need fear Inar. Or was it Anar? I forget ye name boy!”

“Ivar,” the young man replied; eyes downcast. “My name is Ivar…”

“Ivar!” Dex exclaimed loudly.

“Commoner,” Alex smirked at the boy.

“My father was a Greycloak!” Ivar near yelled with what courage he had, anger on his face.

A moment passed before his two companions laughed.

“Ivar the Nameless,” Dex decreed merrily. “that’ll be your name boy!”

The winds blew a second time, harder still; howling something dreadful as sand blocked out the moonlight above them.

Dex got to his feet in an instant, his old soldier days sparking life into old bones. “Fetch more shit for the fire boys!” He shouted commands like a veteran, as even Alex for all his bluster obeyed. It was too little too late.

The trio fell silent as their fire extinguished with a gust and the air grew thick with sand.

“Well fuck,” is all Dex spoke before falling to his knees; blood in his mouth – a figure some seven feet tall at his rear with long bloody claws and a maw of razor teeth smiling at the pair of scouts. It seemed… hungry…

“Alex!” It was Ivar the Nameless who snapped to his senses first, too little too late.

Alex, a rich captain’s son from the islands, found himself shoved to the ground in an instant as the creature leapt across their firepit and bit into him; ripping and clawing at flesh and muscle like a hundred hot knives.

“FUCK YOU!” Ivar screamed simply, drawing his basic castle-forged steel and swinging at the beast.

It hissed with bile and blood as the blade cut into scales and bloodied the young man’s sword with a thick green slime that stank of rust and stale water. “DIE!” Ivar screamed atop his lungs, hacking and hacking, more a butcher than warrior. “Die, Die, Die!” He repeated, his breath heavy, his arm tiring quickly. Spatters of thick green blood flew this way and that way...

The creature snarled and thrashed, clashed at Ivar’s chest and sent him falling backwards.

“No!” Ivar cried wide-eyed, crawling his way backwards from the limping creature.

It limped towards him as Ivar backed up against a large rock and began to cry, the claw marks across his chest growing numb; his muscles failing him quickly. His breathing started to slow.

“N- No,” Ivar tried to breathe. “P- Please…”

The creature exhaled, opening its bloody maw and making some noise.

“I-“ Ivar’s vision began to darken.

It almost seemed like it was laughing at him.

 _“I don’t want to die,”_ is the last thing Ivar the Nameless thought as his vision darkened to black. Between the flashes, he could swear he saw the creature fall. He’d heard the thud of weight upon rock. Hadn’t he?

He wasn’t dead. His mind was his own, he could still smell and hear – the dead couldn’t do that surely?

“Fine shot,” A voice echoed in the dark. “right through the skull. I give it a seven…”

“A seven?!” Another voice argued, clearly disappointed.

“You did crush its prey in the process, left the shot too long…”

“The winds a nightmare Aden!”

“I’m just saying that’s negative points mate.”

“Enough!” A new voice commanded. “The preys not dead.”

If Ivar could speak, he’d have thanked the gods and cried to the heavens.

Aden looked at the boy, bleeding, slashed across his chest; eyes closed and breathing shallow. “The venoms done its trick,” he put a hand to the young man’s neck and felt a slight pulse. “but this one’s a fighter…”

Ivar wanted to open his eyes. He willed them to but found them too heavy.

“You’ll be alright,” the voice closest to him explained simply.

“Throw him on a horse and blindfold him,” the commanding voice said with a sigh. “father will want to question him, and I’ll not have this one knowing our path.”

It seemed to Ivar that he’d live to see another sunrise.

“Why does it matter?” Another voice asked.

“Aye, Wraith, won’t the lord just use em as bait?”

Wraith eyed their captive’s Stark colors and insignia.

Ivar the Nameless felt a cold terror under the man’s gaze.

“We ride lads!” Wraith spoke aloud, ignoring the question of bait as a sack was put over Ivar’s head.

It felt like an eternity before the light burnt his eyes, as the sack was lifted from Ivar’s head and the light of dawn near blinded him in the darkness of the vast cave; lit by torches and set like a lords great hall. Looking around, young Ivar counted men and women and some children in dark leathers of black, greys and browns all looking to him.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and movement in his muscles had returned; though he felt stiff as stone.

“Why did you bring him here?” A voice flooded the cave from atop a makeshift throne of blackened wood.

Ivar eyed the man – or lord, atop his dead wooden throne. His hair was grey, older than even Dex was before his death, his clothing of wolf furs and dark leather with a wolf pommel notable on his sword.

“We thought it best that-“

“That you bring a spy into our home?”

The lord seemed displeased. Ivar kept his silence, lowering his eyes but keeping watch.

“Father,” Aedan stepped forward. “he was the only survivor. We couldn’t just leave him to-“

“Survivors starve in the wastes every day,” the Lord stated a simple fact. “what makes this one special lad? Why not leave him for the wolves or any of the critters that infest our fair wasteland?”

“It was-“ Aedan paused, looking to his brother.

“It was a Shryke, my lord.” Wraith decreed loudly to the mutters and hushed whispers of all those present.

“A Shryke?!” The lord spat the word as if it were a curse.

Wraith gave a nod. “It killed two of the scouts before we intervened.”

A hooded man walked beside Wraith, handing him a bag that reeked of rust and damp. He reached into the sack and lifted out a head into torchlight for all to see. It was almost human; but for the scales, eyes and teeth.

“So close to home…”

The lord seemed distressed.

“By the gods,” Ivar said aloud, to the attention of all present.

“You’re lucky to be alive, scout.” Wraith’s eyes bore into the young man’s soul. “Few can say to have tasted a Shryke’s venom and lived to tell the tale. You’re either brave, stupid, or exceedingly lucky…”

Ivar simply stared in awe between the Wraith and the severed head of a monster.

“I’m betting on the latter two options…”

Ivar looked at his captor’s eyes. Stark eyes.

“Why were you out this far into the wastes, Scout?”

“You’re him,” Ivar muttered. “You’re the ghost…”

The crack across Ivar’s skull couldn’t have come swifter.

“Stupid it is,” Wraith muttered with a sigh.

“Take him away!” The lord commanded. “Everyone out, now!”

Ivar was dragged half-conscious from the hall, muttering about lost Princes.

“I’m sorry my lord,” Wraith knelt and bowed his head before the lord. “I was careless. They’re here for me, I shouldn’t have been so proud; it must’ve been the sword! I swear I-“

The lord grasped the Wraiths shoulders, picking him up and embracing him.

“It’s father boy,” the Lord smiled. “how many times must I remind you?”

“At least once more, always; father…”

The Lord of the Wastes laughed, a bitter thing.

“Blackhand,” Wraith added after a moment. “There was something off about him…”

In hindsight, the man was supposed to be a demon with a blade; but his riders had subdued him easily. Wraith had put it down to his men’s skill out of pride but perhaps it was something else?

“He wanted to be caught,” Wraith decided aloud. “to speak with me. To gloat…”

“Why?” The lord asked, confused. “To what end lad? He was simply mad. He-“

“There was black vapour when I opened his throat...”

Silence at that. The lord sat back in his chair, as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders.

“He’d been touched by them, I know it – nothing else makes sense…”

“K’Dath has been silent for years,” The lord argued, shaking his head at the notion. “since long before you came to us lad. You know this. That evil died long ago, eons ago, even the city is lost to the sand!”

“We of all people should know that legends have some truth to them father.” Wraith’s eyes flashed to the stinking sack that contained a severed monster’s head. “And the Shryke’s avoid the south, especially now.”

“Mindless beasts,” The lord dismissed. The doubt lingered in his tone. He knew better.

“You forget father,” Wraith smiled genuinely now. “it was you who taught me how the greatest monsters are sometimes the quiet ones. Sightings of the scaly bastards have been increasing for months now…”

It went without saying the cause, though none had spoken it aloud.

“They’ve been fleeing from something.”

The nights were growing darker by the day.

* * *

A familiar warhorn blew in the distance. Harooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, as long and low and chilling as the cold winds of winter. Ivar awoke to the sound, a cough on his lungs; his throat dry and sore.

The sound gave him hope. The winds of winter had come to save him…

“I know that look,” a familiar voice greeted his waking eyes.

The Wraith stood on the opposite side of his cell, behind the crude iron bars.

“Don’t flatter yourself scout,” he continued as the horns blew again and again.

Ivar eyed the Wraith. “Prince Willam?”

“The last time I heard those horns blow,” the Wraith turned Prince began. “I was in a cell not unlike yours. I was younger, hopeful and naïve; thinking even despite my doubts that somehow things would be alright…”

Ivar’s throat fought him when he tried to speak, feeling as if a beast had clawed at his insides.

“Here,” the Wrath threw him a skin of water. “drink. The venom is potent, you’ll not fully recover for a time.”

“T- Thank you, my prince.”

Wraith scowled at the old title.

“Frostfell was the last I heard the horns, now they hunt me again…”

“H- Hunt?” Ivar managed through course breaths.

Wraith stared at the man. “Who am I?”

Ivar ceased sipping at his water, confused.

“We’re short on time Scout. Answer the question.”

“P- Prince Willam,” Ivar explained hoarsely. “the fourth born son of-“

“Fifth son,” Willam corrected sharply.

“Prince Snow?”

“Aye,” He confirmed with a sigh. “Continue…”

Cregan may be a bastard but that still made him the fifth son, as far as Will was concerned.

“Fifth son of his grace King Brandon.” Ivar fought against the burn in his throat as he spoke. Whatever that creatures venom did had left him feeling like death itself. “You vanished after the events at Frostfell and his grace decreed you missing. It was whispered you’d been kidnapped by some distant relation of House Frost or perhaps one of their friends at court or-“

“House Frost is dead. I wasn’t kidnapped, I left of my own will Scout.”

“Why?” Ivar managed, with what courage he had; that was a surprising amount for a mere scout.

Willam looked at the scout, alone in a dark cell with the stench of optimism clinging to his cloths; reminding the young prince of himself in a way. At least, a younger version he couldn’t help but pity.

“I’ll tell you,” he decided. “Ivar the Scout. Listen well for I’ll not repeat myself.”

Ivar gave a nod in response, unsure what else to do.

“After the fall of Frost,” those words hung heavy in the air. “we returned to Winterhold. Father had all the Frost household bodies tossed into a ditch and set alight; including my betrothed. I was unconscious at the time.”

“Y- Your betrothed?” Ivar asked.

Will smiled a hollow smile. “Not common knowledge, at least not to anyone fool enough to remember it.”

His father had all but forbidden those nobles aware of the pact from speaking of it.

“I awoke later in my bed at Winterhold, with only my mother at my bedside; watching over me.” He smiled fondly at that. “I thought it all a nightmare at first until I discovered the waking world was its own nightmare.”

“I- I thought…”

“Yes?” Will asked, growing tired of his own story.

“You were made Lord of Frostfell, no?”

A scoff at that. “My father’s decree, shipping me off to the very place that haunted my dreams so no others could claim the seat – calling it justice, for the crimes Lord Frost committed against me…”

“So,” Ivar hesitated. “you ran from becoming lord?”

Willam stared at the scout, some anger flashing behind grey eyes.

“I’m sorry-“

“Don’t,” Willam snarled at the notion. “Never say you’re sorry for things beyond your control. You’ve done nothing to warrant apology. Justice should fall on the deserving, never on empty gestures.”

Words were wind, as they say. He’d learnt that much was true enough.

“Wraith?” A hooded man walked up behind. “It’s time.”

Willam took a set of keys from his cloak, opening up the scout’s cell door.

“My Prince?” Ivar asked, confusion on his face.

“Come,” he replied and turned away. “We’re going home.”

* * *

A trio walked out of the cave network entrance to be greeted by a harsh sun, vast canyon walls and ahead of them; a large military encampment flying Stark banners proudly in the gentle winds. Prince Willam paused but a moment, glancing to his side at seemingly nothing before stepping forward, one foot at a time, steady towards the camp as his ragged black cloak blew gently in the breeze behind him.

“You can turn back Aedan,” he offered absently as they walked. “it’s not too late Aedan.”

Aedan Greystark shook his head. “Never, dear brother. Never...”

His loyalty was commendable, as always; though Willam would never admit how grateful he was for it.

“Halt!” The sentries posted outside the Stark camp commanded, lowering their fine spears and pointing them in warning at the trio. “Who goes there? State your damn business Outlanders!”

Ivar stepped forward. “His Grace, Prince Willam Stark, requests an-“

“Take me to the King,” Willam growled his command; anger masking his doubts.

“I-“ The guard muttered, unsure of himself as he eyed the outlanders.

“Do you know what your king did the last time someone kept me from his grasp?”

The guards looked to each other as fear brewed behind quiet eyes.

“They were nobles,” Willam stepped closer to the men. “are you? What will Brandon the Bloody do to two lowborn guardsmen that kept his wayward son from him? It’s an interesting thought…”

“W- We’re under orders not to-“

“Will he drown you in a barrel of blood, I wonder?”

He’d drowned a lord, who were these men to the king? Nobody. Nobody at all.

“Take me to him. Now…”

“Aye!”

“Follow us!”

Willam sighed as the guards scurried into the camp, leading the way to the center most command tent. “Size matters,” he scoffed at the thought as they neared the giant royal tend, three times the height of all others.

Lords were gathered inside, arguing; as they tended to do – but all voices died as he entered.

“Your Grace,” the two guards knelt. “your son, Prince Willam, is here to-“

“Out!” The King decreed, cold as winter. “All of you, leave me with my son…”

Aedan and Ivar made to leave too as the lords all eyed him with a mix of doubt and curiosity. “These two remain,” Willam said aloud, eyeing Aden and Ivar in a glance. “or I leave, and you’ll not find me a second time…”

The King of Winter scoffed at the notion, some thought held back from his lips as he looked to his youngest and fought a smile; unknown to his boy. “As you wish lads, sit; you’ve a story to tell no do-“

“I’ve not come for stories, old man...”

King Brandon frowned at his son, saying nothing as he held his cup of wine.

“You’ll not harm those that sheltered me.”

“Won’t I?” Brandon asked simply. Uncaring. “Why not? These outlaws kept a Prince of the Realm from me.” The whole realm knew the price of such defiance, even if the outlanders weren’t sworn to Winterhold.

“They saved me,” Willam explained angrily. “I’d be long dead if not for them!”

“Prince Willam came to us starving and weak, Your Grace.” Aedan stepped forward to his friend and brother. “We took him in, and my father wasn’t aware of his identity until he trusted us enough with the truth.”

“And you didn’t return him, boy; whatever you name is…”

“Aedan Greystark,” he bowed slightly. “shield to Willam Stark.”

King Brandon stared at the man. “A heavy burden you claim, Aedan Greystark; if that is your true name – that would make you a sand wolf? There are tales of your branch, ancient as they are…”

Aedab smiled bravely. “All speak well of us, I hope?”

“You’re dead,” Brandon smirked mockingly. “as far as they’re concerned boy.”

“It’s just Me and my father left…”

“And you, quiet one?” Brandon eyed the scout with a raise brow.

“I- Ivar, Your Grace…”

“Ivar is a scout,” Willam added. “one of the poor fools you sent as bait into the wastes.”

The King barely gave a nod to that, eyeing his wayward son a blank expression.

“You’re coming home lad,” he declared simply; walking up to the young prince. There was something foreign to Will behind those eyes, threatening to break the surface as the old king paused. It faded as quickly as it came. “and I’ll naught have your little desert friends hung and quartered – if you swear, on your dead girls’ ghost that-

Willam stared at his father, snarling like a wolf. “You dare!”

“-you’ll never run from your duty ever again. Is that understood?”

“You fucking-” Willam tasted iron, bloody; as the kings fist found his stomach and sent him to his knees with a grunt. King Brandon was a giant, half Umber, at seven feet tall – it was like getting kicked by a horse…

“Is. That. Understood?!”

“Y- Yes,” Willam groaned on his knees, eyes downcast. “Father…”

Aedan’s hand fell quickly off his swords pommel and down in a heartbeat to lift his prince back to his feet. Willam, releasing a harsh cough, walked idly to the center table where a pitcher of wine sat unused.

“Will?” Aedan asked, worry thick in his voice.

Willam poured himself a cup of wine and drank deeply from it as his father left the three men alone in his royal tent without any words spared. “I've never been one for drinking you know Aedan,” he looked down at the red liquid that reminded him too closely of blood. The very same red sea that Erik drowned in all those years ago. “I’m just... so tired of it all...”

The Prince seemed different as he spoke, and Aedan could see it; in his eyes.

“I ask myself, sometimes, why not?” Willam still glared into the dark wine cup with a blank stare. “I have loved and lost, seen men I called brother drowned in barrels of blood…”

In his minds eye, the wine was blood; and he drank from the cup.

“The woman I loved was splattered upon cobblestone…”

“Will,” Aedan interrupted with a warm smile. “let’s put down the wine brother; come and-“

“My father lied to me,” Willam snarled as he refilled his cup beyond filling, spilling wine over the wooden table. “He allowed the men who raped her to go free, brother – I told you once; did I not?”

Frost’s own guards had broken into her chambers as the castles garrison sallied out that day.

Willam’s eyes lacked all emotion as he began to drink deeply from his cup.

“My Prince, I-“

“Brother…”

“Brothers!” Willam laughed, a hollow bitter thing; devoid of all joy. “Where were my brothers then? Who were they to question a King?! Who was I? He kept it from me and had the damn gall to call ignorance a mercy!”

Willam drank from another full cup, before throwing it aside; staining the wooden table red.

“Why not?” He began to ramble, leaning absently against the table. “You saw him, my father, even after all this time he cared nothing for me! The bastard punched me for god’s sake! Should I be sad? Angry? Hungry perhaps?

It was Aedan who answered, his eyes pleading. “How _do_ you feel, brother?”

How did he feel? Drunker, at present; he’d never tasted wine before and yet…

“Tired, brother.” Willam knew, it seemed the correct answer. “So, indescribably tired, my friend; exhausted truly. I’m rambling, aren’t I? My apologies. It seems I have strayed too far into madness…”

“I don’t see madness brother,” Aedan stepped forward. “only anger. How can I help you Will?”

Help? It would be Greystark that offered that, now wouldn’t it; loyalty carved into his very soul…

A wise man would sooner take one Aedan than a hundred others at his back.

 _“Loyalty.”_ The voice rang in Will’s head, seeming louder for the wine.

“I once felt honor was the truest virtue,” Willam sighed, looking to Aedan and Ivar with a serious glance. “but I’ve seen too much cruelty and deceit for that to ring true. Loyalty, ever fleeting, is all that remains…”

“You have mine brother,” Aedan knelt, as one might to a king. “now and always. I swear!”

As if there were any doubt. Ivar however…

“And you, Ivar?” Willam eyed the scout. “Where is your loyalty?”

“With the House of Star-“

“No!” Willam snapped. “Loyalty to whom, not what – never what!”

Ivar looked confused, his eyes glancing to a kneeling Aedan; who offered him nothing.

“Is- Is this a test?”

“In a matter,” Will answered. “Will you swear?”

“I will, my prince…”

Words were wind, as they say…

“Will you?” Willam doubted, stepping forward and offering Aedan his arm; lifting the man to his feet and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I have heard those words a thousand times Ivar and thought them true…”

Prince Willam sized the young scout up. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than even Will’s few years; eager to please and serve – his words rang true and yet… others had rung truer before too…

 _“We’ve been here before,”_ the voice in his head sang like tower bells against his skull. _"we'll be here again..."_

“What will you do, Ivar the Nameless?” Willam took a step forward, a hand on his swords pommel. “What will you do when the darkness comes? When your words are tested, will you crumble I wonder, as others do?”

He withdrew Frostbite from its runed scabbard and held it to the young scout’s throat in a flash.

“Will you make excuses to help you sleep at night perhaps?” The blade shun an eerie blue, an aura of cold radiating against Ivar’s neck; putting the fear of winter in him. “Will you lie to me? To yourself? To the gods? Will you surrender your virtues because it is easy perhaps; or will you refuse? I ask you again Ivar my friend, knowing that when you swear, I understand it may ring false…”

Willam lowered Frostbite and gazed at the fear in Ivar’s wide brown eyes.

“When you think to swear, will you still swear, knowing that I expect you to lie?”

Ivar the Nameless dropped to his knees and looked up at his prince.

“I am yours, from this day to my last…”

“We shall see.” Willam sheathed Frostbite. “Oh, and Ivar?”

“Aye my Prince?”

He clasped Ivar on his shoulder, smiled, and threatened his life; all in a heartbeat - as if it were the simplest of things. Will smiled as he made his promise. “Speak a word of what I’ve said here today Ivar, and I’ll cut your fucking throat; friend or not, is that understood?”

“I- I wouldn’t,” Ivar stumbled over his words. “I’d never-“

“Excellent.” Willam smiled, whatever foul cloud that hung over him before having vanished; as if the conversation had never taken place. Aedan followed his brother-prince like a dutiful shadow in his leave, exiting the tent as Willam called out “come Ivar the Loyal, we’re going home!” and the young scout scurried to follow his new wayward and slightly unhinged prince.

Ivar’s life would, for better or worse, never be dull again.


	4. The Secret City

_“In between madness and apathy.” – Prince Artos Stark_

N'ghai, according to legend, was once a vast kingdom spanning from the Plains of Jogos Nhai in the west to the forests of Mossovy to the east – but as time wasted away, so did the kingdom; now a shadow of its former self with only the city of Nefer resting along a river that fed the Shivering Sea. To the southeast was the Bleeding Sea and the Cannibal Sands, neither hospitable places; if the names weren’t clue enough to their nature, ample horror stories existed to ward off the curious.

The Secret City of Nefer was cloaked to all outsiders, a place of dark magic and ill omens; to all but those that knew its secrets – or were unfortunate enough to be invited past the fogs.

“I don’t like this, lad.” The man spoke plainly, his dark brown eyes glaring at the fog before them.

“I don’t either Lord Ryder,” Prince Artos answered the lord’s concern. “Regardless, we have a mission to accomplish – and men to rescue, should our fears be realized.”

“Aye,” Lord Ryder kept his stiff gaze. “Regardless…”

The fog parted for them eerily as they entered the modest docks.

“Is the legendary Reaper afraid?” Artos asked, smirking; noting the greying lords scowl as the fogs parted at their approach – welcoming their ship to dock as a nod to their invitation.

“It’s a fool that doesn’t fear black magics…”

There was no honour in dying that way, certainly.

Ragnar Ryder’s scowl however turned sharp to a predatory grin. “We’ll teach these foul nercos a thing or two Stark, don’t you fret; I may be old, but my axe speaks for itself!”

Louder than Words, as House Ryder was fond of boasting.

“Father,” came a rather hollow-toned voice. “Bolvar sent me to-“

“Your brother’s incapable of speaking for himself now, is he lad?!”

Bjorn Ryder offered little but a scowl, ignoring the man and opting instead to address the prince; who hadn’t so much as turned to greet him. “Admiral, we’re closing in and await orders.”

“Very good Bjorn,” Artos answered, still eyeing the city as it came into view.

The docks of Nefer were modest, but ultimately a disappointing collection of rotting damp wooden houses; neglected by time – it was a wonder anyone truly lived here at all.

“Tell your brother his orders stand,” Artos dismissed the Ryder brother.

Bjorn departed with a roll of his eyes, irked for having his time wasted.

“Bolvar’s throwing his weight around, it seems…”

Lord Ragnar scoffed. “Bjorn’s too easily pushed, doesn’t stand up enough – his brothers have always seen and exploited that weakness; except for Qrow. He’s too much like his damn mother…”

The youngest of four brothers, it was only a small wonder Qrow Ryder hadn’t fled from his family yet like his brother Agnar had done years ago – stealing a ship and buggering off to gods know where. Bjorn meanwhile was twin to Bolvar and bitter in the heir’s considerable shadow.

House Ryder were as strong as they were proud, if not equally unruly.

“He’ll come into his own,” Artos offered simply, disinterested; eyes cast out to the shore.

“Perhaps,” Lord Ragnar sighed. “Can’t do worse than bloody Agnar…”

Agnar the Angry, he’d been called; before his rather theatrical departure.

“What do you see lad?” Ragnar’s voice echoed as cold winds blew past wings above. He could see for miles around, flying above with a view that was known only to a few, looking down upon the once clouded secret city. He wasn't the only one in the skies, soaring with a few dozen, leaving no part of city uncovered; ensuring every detail was noticed, every man, every woman and every weakness was seen and accounted for. He soared higher than any of the others, uninterested in watching – but eager to confirm his suspicions, vast and troubling as they were.

Prince Artos’s eyes flickered open, sighing wearily as he turned to face the old lord.

“They’re hiding,” He decided quickly with a clear scowl. “It seems the reports weren’t exaggerations. The true horrors of Nefer lay below the surface – there’s a great building of black stone up against the chalk cliffs, no doubt of some importance to them. I cannot say for certain…”

“But this run-down ruin isn’t the stuff of legend,” Lord Ragnar huffed. “Obviously.”

Artos gave a nod in agreement. The necromancers were hiding, underground by all reports – they spoke of great halls of marble and obsidian; chambers that shun in glowing fires.

“This could be a trap lad,” Lord Ragnar offered as their ship docked; while two others lowered anchor behind them – insurance in event of hostilities. “The missing envoy is likely dead.”

“My father disagrees,” Artos replied with eyes skyward.

“Your father is a great man,” Lord Ryder agreed. “And he’s my friend – you know this – but the envoy is dead; we’ve our answer. We should leave this cursed place lad.”

Prince Artos smirked at that. He wasn’t wrong, and yet…

“It’s unlike you to flee with a fight, Ryder.”

“Not saying we run boy,” the old lord had some bite. “I’m saying we come back with more men!”

“How many more would you say is enough, Ryder?”

“An army or three,” Ryder scoffed at his own notion. “Stark.”

They could bring ten armies and still not have enough men to seize this place.

Artos’s great eagle flew down above them. “What purpose would they have inviting us to parlay if it were merely a trap? What reason would they have? We’ve kept to our terms for generations…”

Their terms with the Kings of N'ghai weren’t the strongest, and it earned Winterhold more than a few wary glances, but it had proven practical and held for generations.

“Who truly knows where the mind of a necromancer lays, Stark.”

“Madness and Apathy, my Lord.” Artos turned to walk away, muttering an old saying to himself as he stepped down from the helm of his ship. “Somewhere in between madness and apathy.

Two men and a woman in flowing black robes greeted them as Prince Artos stepped off the safety of his ship and onto the poor wooden dock, dressed in fine white-and-silver attire with plate and chainmail to guard; alongside a long and short sword. He and his men were ready for a fight.

“Prince Artos Stark of Winterhold!” A herald cried out atop his lungs as a company of some fifty Greycloaks flanked their prince; followed closely by Lord Ryder and some twenty of his own guard. “Admiral of the Stark Fleet. Anchor of Winter. Third born son of his grace King Brandon the Seventh of his Name; lord of Winterhold, King of Winter and descendant of The Shipwright!”

By the gods, he hated how long winded all those titles sounded.

“Prince Artos,” The black robed woman stepped forward to address him, seeming unfazed by all his guardsmen. “We’ve been expecting you. If you’d come with us?”

He eyed the woman. Her silken black robes hugged her figure closely, revealing how beautiful she was; with eyes shrouded under a hood, flowing black hair and a large chest meant to distract him.

They’d sent this one of purpose, he knew.

“Where are our people?”

The woman kept her unfazed smile.

“Answer us witch!” Lord Ryder demanded, stepping dangerously forward.

The woman simply gazed at Artos like nothing Ryder did or said mattered. The guardsmen didn’t matter. The steel, armour; even wargs, none of it. Something about her seemed inhuman.

“Answer me,” Artos managed, realizing he’d gone silent. “My lady.”

“Now that is proper manners, My Prince.”

She seemed pleased with herself, eyes darting to Ryder mockingly.

“Your envoy was found guilty of crimes too grievous to be explained by my lips dear Prince.” The woman turned as her two male companions remained still. “Come, the master wishes to speak.”

The master? Now didn’t that sound eerie at all…

“My two brothers will remain behind,” She didn’t turn back to them.

“If this is a trap…”

“You will kill them,” She shrugged, uncaring. “We’d expect nothing less.”

Prince Artos sighed, following the woman; his Greycloaks on edge as their party followed suit. Bolvar Ryder was left to guard their newest guests, much to his annoyance. It was a chore not to let his traitorous eyes wander over the strange woman as she walked away.

The words of his father echoed within the confines of Artos’s mind.

“You’ll find beauty often hides the greatest and ugliest of dangers.”

* * *

They entered the large building of oily black stone, their white-and-silver armour with greys and Ryder reds a stark contrast to the darkness that engulfed them now – with the red stallion of House Ryder standing out bloody and defiant against the shadows. All men stood on edge.

The building seemed smaller on the inside, the ceiling high; engraved in an ancient language unknown to Artos or his people. They entered the darkness, as the woman lead them.

“Welcome to Nefer,” She declared happily. “The last and first bastion of N'ghai.”

“Where are my father’s envoys?”

“Patience,” The woman held her smile.

There was an audible click before the floor seemed to shift, as many of Ryder’s men drew steel expecting an attack and the Greycloaks surrounded their Prince.

“To arms!” Bhelen Greystark commanded his men as they drew steel.

The woman laughed when Lord Ryder grabbed her.

“What is this madness witch!”

“Below,” She spoke; her voice choked by the lord’s hands.

“Lord Ryder!” Artos snapped at the man. “Release her!”

He did, after a moment pause and a glare meant to kill.

“My saviour,” The woman chuckled, hands rubbing her neck.

The sound of grinding stone ceased, and in a flash, torches lit around the room; revealing a stairwell in the floor where none existed before – spiralling downwards and brightly lit.

“This way,” The woman said sweetly as she stepped down the stairwell.

More and more this whole effort seemed like a poor idea. Ryder it seemed, agreed.

“This is folly boy,” The old lord snarled. “We’re walking into a bloody trap!”

“Have you ever read the reports we’ve gotten over the years, Ryder?” Artos eyed the man sharply, awaiting a response he knew the answer to. “No, you haven’t – but I have. It’s said that the true majesty of Nefer exists under the surface. Our envoys spoke of a stairway to the secret city.”

“And you think this,” The young Bjorn Ryder stared at the stair. “Is that?”

Artos would’ve laughed if he weren’t so uncertain. Grown men, scared of some stairs.

“You needn’t follow,” He decided; knowing it would spur Ryder onward.

“I’ll take men ahead my Prince,” Bhelen offered. “It’ll be safer if-“

“Fuck you pup,” Ragnar scoffed. “Ryder’s don’t cover behind glorified guardsmen!”

House Ryder never ran from a challenge, even from the Cadet families.

“I’ll take that to mean you’re with me, Lord Ryder?”

The man pushed past his Prince, muttering curses, charging with his axe out down the stairs shouting “Louder than Words” to spur his more cautious men onward. Prince Artos watched with a smirk as the Ryder guardsmen followed their lord into the unknown secret shadows.

“Into the depths we go, my loyal wolves.”

Bhelen Greystark and his Greycloaks followed without complaint.

The dark lit by undying fires burnt brightly, casting shadows against black oily halls of stone as they ventured down the stairs – where the shrouded woman waited for them patiently. She was still smiling. If she’d held any doubts they’d follow, she showed none of them here.

The sight before them was a vast endless stretch of hallways lit by fire.

“Take me to your King, my Lady.”

She bowed gracefully at the Prince and walked.

Artos felt trapped as he walked, passing by other necromances that eyed them with uncaring glances; followed by slaves and servants that dared not look at anything besides the oily black floors. “Dark stone, dark robes; dark everything.” He muttered, walking along ahead of his guards.

“Who built this place?” Bjorn Ryder asked aloud, growing curious.

“The Old Ones bid N'ghai build the halls,” The woman replied happily, seeming eager to teach the Ryder man all about her gods. “They were locked away, you see; long ago. Nefer is the once and future bastion of their majesty! It was and will be the greatest of the-“

“The boy didn’t ask for a lecture on your false gods, witch!”

She halted in her tracks to stare at Lord Ryder, head tilted in question.

“Lead on my lady,” Artos insisted politely.

The glare she replied with could only be called chilling.

“You will see,” She continued walking, now eerily silent.

All this talk of Old Ones and necromancer dark magic nonsense was putting everyone on edge, Artos could tell; his men all held to their pommels expecting demons to pounce out of every shadow.

It reminded him too closely of the old stories out of the Empire.

* * *

In hindsight, he’d have thought of something to say; but in the moment words seemed lacking no matter the choice. The massive doors swung open, and his stomach churned in worry.

“My brothers and sister!” The woman cried out as they entered a hall greater than the others, vast; held up by black oily pillars that stretched up impossibly high to the rock above. The woman quickened her pace towards a throne and knelt with haste. “I bring the wolves, Listener.”

“I see,” The figure known as Listener muttered from his throne of blackened skulls.

“Have I done well?” The woman pleaded her question, eyes wide; her hood lowered.

“Very well young one,” The Listener smiled, revealing his rotten teeth.

Artos took a step forward to the stranger. “You are not King of Nefer…”

The Listener smiled, as something in the shadows behind his throne growled menacingly.

“I am called Listener,” The Not-King of Nefer smiled his ugly smile. “I’m afraid the supposed King you treated with in the past proved a blasphemer; and is no longer polluting these sacred halls.”

That was news. A usurper then, and a religious zealot perhaps?

“No matter,” Artos dismissed; truly uncaring. “Return our people and-“

“The punishment for heresy is death.”

The Listener said that as if it were a simple thing.

“Our people are not Nefer’s to judge, Your Grace.” They’d always turned a blind eye to the distasteful actions of Nefer in past dealings and in turn; they’d never dared involve themselves in the Islands beliefs. “Return what belong to us and we can continue to-“

“That is quite impossible, wolf prince.”

Artos scowled, his patience running thin.

“Return our people!” Lord Ryder stepped forward.

“Your envoys sided with the blasphemer,” Listener explained, leading forward on his black throne of oily stone. “They have been cleaned. Rejoice, they serve the masters now.”

“Dead?” Artos narrowed his eyes, hand on the pommel of his sword.

“The punishment for-“

“YOU DARE!” Lord Ryder growled, drawing his steel.

His men followed in a heartbeat, as Bhelen’s stepped into line behind them.

Artos held his hand up, halting the violence as whatever lurked behind the Listeners throne bellowed a low growl – more beast than dog. “We’re leaving, and you can answer to my father!”

“You were invited for a purpose, Artos Stark.”

He stopped as he turned, anger growing as his blood began to boil. “You have broken guest rights once; so, you intend to again Listener – whoever you are?!”

The Listener held his ugly toothy smile. “Your false gods rights are meaningless; in time you will see this Prince. This is the reason you were summoned here, to serve.”

“You’re completely mad…”

“It’s a great honour,” The Listener’s smile ceased.

“We have held true to our pact with your people for a generation!” Artos yelled, white knuckles wrapped around his swords handle. “And this is how you repay us?!”

“We should leave Art,” Bhelen whispered, eyes warily on the shadows.

The Listener laughed, a hollow gurgling thing.

“Yes!” He decreed madly. “Yes! Artos Stark, you are to be the Messenger; such it is your reward!”

Artos drew his swords, echoed by the sound of every Greycloak following their prince. Fear gripped the lot of them, but that was no matter – they would die for their charge, if need be.

“I am no puppet!” Artos growled, staring down the man on the throne.

The grows grew louder from behind the Listener. “You will serve Messenger, and you will see; as I have heard – your path is already destined. You cannot fight fate.”

Artos Stark swung one blade, feeling the balance. “Watch me!”

The fires that lit the great hall all died in a heartbeat, cloaking the world in darkness as black fog choked the air. Artos could see nothing beyond his own hands; eyes darting for threats.

“You cannot fight.”

Knives in the dark cut at men’s throats.

“The masters see you, Stark.”

Men swung blindly, striking friend or foe.

“You cannot fight destiny…”

Artos felt his blade cut deep into one roped figure, then another.

“Louder than Words!” The below came, as Ragnar Ryder screamed towards the Listeners taunting voice, his two-handed valyrian axe swinging through the darkness; seeming to cut away the fog.

“There!” Artos caught a glimpse of the Listener, smirking at them through the fog.

“Arghhhh!” Lord Ryder screamed, cutting his way up to the throne.

The growled answered his approach, low and hellish; as red eyes darted out of the fog and crashed into the old warrior; ripping and gnawing at his arm; sending his axe to the black stone floor.

“FATHER!” It was Bjorn to the old lord’s rescue, picking up his father’s axe and driving it down into the red-eyed creature, causing it to go limp and release Lord Ryders mangled arm.

The creature’s death stirred more growls from the darkness, as the fog seemed to lessen.

“Ryder!” Artos shouted at the young man, knelt over his father muttering curses.

In a flash, Bjorn Ryder was flung across the floor; two or three of the demonic shades ripping apart his body with no effort at all. “Enough!” Artos decreed, wide-eyed. “LISTENER! STOP THIS!”

The Listener chuckled as the fog faded as if by command.

“I-“ Artos looked around, seeing half his men dead and the others with knives to their throats. There were pools of blood everywhere; but the princes eyes lingered on the beasts feasting on Bjorn’s flesh. “W- What in the name of the gods is this madness?!”

“You like them?” Listener smiled at the beasts that looked akin to hounds out of the dark – only large and hellish, with rows of razor teeth and blood red eyes; and maws coated in blood.

Artos rushed to Lord Ryders side, ignoring the demon hounds.

“Ragnar?” He ripped away at his blood-stained cloak, wrapping it around the mangled bloody remains of the old lord’s arm. “Hold in there, old man! Do you hear me!?”

“Accept your path,” The Listener sat back on his throne, quite pleased.

Artos looked up and growled at the man. “My people go free?”

The Listener smiled, nodding again and again in answer. “Sister,” He called for the woman that had guided them all to this foul place. “Give the Messenger his charge, will you?”

The woman from before stepped to Artos, her black robes red and bloody.

“You bitch,” Artos snarled at her, getting up to his feet.

“How rude,” She pouted innocently. “I thought we were friends.”

Artos had half a mind to pick up Ryder’s axe and cut down as many of them as he could before he fell and gladly would have, if not for the lives of his people being the price.

“Tell me what you’d have me do, witch…”

She smiled before she kissed him, a wholly wicked thing, as vapour invaded his throat; tasting of ash and coal – the world grew dark as he pushed her away, stumbling backwards.

* * *

In the darkness he heard many voices, reaching out to him.

"To have waited so long... for this...”

He saw the hounds of void drooling blood, stalking at the edge of his vision. “F- Face me cowards!” Artos stumbled, a dark vapour choking his lungs; the taste of ash on his tongue.

“Give in to your fear,” The voices whispered. “Hope is an illusion.”

He drew steel, swinging and waving it against the dark; only for the blade to fade.

“Sk'shgn eqnizz hoq,” The whispers spoke a tongue he’d never heard. “Sk'uuyat guulphg hoq!”

Artos felt himself forced to his knees, feeling hands on cold sand; looking out at a sea red with blood and sails along the horizon bright with flames as men and women screamed.

“Sk'yahf agth huqth K'Dath’s qornaus!”

The voices screamed at him, unrelenting. He saw a dark room half flooded and filled with bones, as dead men rose up from the water to clutch and claw at a lone black wolf.

“Ull vera skine!”

He saw himself seating Winterhold’s throne, with a wolfs skull resting under his hand; and a floor covered in the skulls of men – as lords and ladies knelt before him in terror and dread.

“Never,” He growled in pain, shaking the illusion. “That is not my place!”

“Mg'uulwi, eth'razzqi wades zand oodies!”

The words twisted in his mind, seeming less foreign; however broken. The sands turned scolding hot as mighty white walls cracked and crumbled before him, and tides of men riding basilisks crashed into a glowing city of light; bringing death and darkness to its people.

Artos closed his eyes and screamed, his mind threatening to burst.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?”

“Ga’aze into the heartov K’Dath!”

He saw a vast city of oily black spires and spiked towers rising out of the sand, seeming to swallow the very sun as winged creatures flew out from its confines and vast endless hordes of black mass seeped out into the sands to consume everything it touched. Corrupting everything.

The whispers seemed excited. In place of their harsh tone, now came silk and honey.

“I will await you,” It promised sweetly. “In the dark.”

The waking world burnt his eyes like red-hot steel as sweet silence washed over him, blissfully welcome after the whispers. Men surrounded him, panicked and exhausted.

“Artos?” Bhelen knelt at his side with clear concerned, pulling his Prince up from the floor.

“W- What happened?” Artos looked around, the dark hall was empty; void of the Listener and his creatures. The blood and any sign of battle had vanished. “Where are…”

“Gone,” Came the strained voice of Lord Ryder, his eyes burning with fury.

“Old man?” Artos asked, his confusion clean.

Lord Ryder gave a nod, flexing his mangled arm with a grunt of sharp pain.

“Bjorn?” Artos glanced around for the remains of the young Ryder, as doubtless the man was dead – soon to be covered in a cloak. He couldn’t see the body, but perhaps they’d moved it already…

“We need to leave,” The old lord muttered, his tone empty.

“I’m sorry,” Artos offered, frowning; mentally kicking himself for ever leading them into this hell. “He was a brave man. We’ll carry his body and see him properly-“

“HIS BODY IS FUCKING GONE!” Lord Ryder screamed, his voice echoing off the empty hall.

Gone? What possible reason would the necro’s have for… good gods…

“How many…”

“Over half dead,” Lord Ryder growled low. “Nearly all my own men, none wounded; they only left the live one’s – the godless bastards! This is YOUR fault, Stark! You led us into this forsaken place!”

What remained of his Greycloak’s all drew steel, as Lord Ryder yelled and cursed.

“Not godless,” He didn’t mean to mutter that aloud…

“Are you fucking listening to me boy!?”

He wasn’t. This had been a disaster. He shouldn’t have been so careless…

“ANSWER ME YOU SON OF A WHORE!”

Artos swung his steel up to Ryder’s throat in a heartbeat.

“If I didn’t blame myself as much as those shits for this,” He growled more akin to wolf than man. “Then I would separate your head from your damn shoulders for that My Lord.”

“Do it boy!” Ragnar spat out in his anger.

Some part of him wanted to, but what would that achieve? The man was struck by grief…

“Prince Artos,” Bhelen offered warily from the side. “We need to leave...”

“Aye,” He withdrew his blade. “We have lost enough good men…”

Lord Ryder scowled, then stormed off with what little men he had left.

“Greystark?” Artos asked the man, who boasted some fresh scars and held firm to a blank mournful expression. “What are our losses? Where is the enemy?”

Bhelen did a once over glace to his men. “Over half My Prince; as the Lord Ryder suggested before his… outburst… the bastards took many of us by surprise in the dark.”

“And the enemy? Can we fight our way out of here?”

“No need, my Prince.” Bhelen seemed concerned, as if he weren’t sure his information was correct – no doubt leaning on the side of paranoia. “We woke before you – the halls are empty...”

Empty? That was madness. Then again, what wasn’t of late?

“This is a city, Bhelen; not a ghost town…”

“It’s empty, My Prince, on my honour.”

Somehow, he knew the Listener wanted it this way.

“I accept full responsibility for this and-“

“No,” Artos dismissed the notion. “The fault lays with me and the necromancers…”

Bhelen accepted that with a nod, not arguing; for in truth he didn’t disagree. Artos blamed himself for not foreseeing the outcome, however unpredictable the outcome was.

“We’re going home,” He announced quietly. “Let’s leave this gods forsaken place…”

Leaving was a simple thing as nobody stood between them, the stairs to the secret city sealing up behind them once they’d left – the fogs rolling in behind them as they fled to the ships. The necromancer guests left behind as hostages had vanished. Lord Ryder had already departed ahead of them on his own ship. Prince Artos retired to his cabin, praying for peaceful dreams.

The gods didn’t answer. Nightmares plagued him every time he closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t planning this chapter originally, so you weren’t actually going to get a PoV from Prince Artos for the events in Nefer but I got carried away rambling about lovecrafty vibes and K’Dath thus was born The Secret City, Necromancers, Hellhounds and The Old Ones. I also had fun chatting in Old One; that you can vaguely translate for yourselves if you’re smart about it. I stole the language from the Old Gods in World of Warcraft. I leave the translating to you if you wish it. K’Dath is a fun side-story that we’ll continue to explore, without spoiling too much, there is some vague canon material behind it all; though extremely vague.
> 
> The Old Ones language can be translated fyi, if you find out where it's taken from exactly. Goodluck with that.


	5. Strong as Stone

_“We’ve been here before; we’ll be here again.” – Prince Willam Stark_

The hall was heavy with the smells of smoked fish and fresh-baked bread, with lords and levy alike in attendance, the wooden walls of the modest hall were draped with Fisher banners; blues, whites and silvers – boasting the fortunes of House Fish; named after its founder, a fisherman with no creativity whatsoever.

In the early hours of the feast none were as disinterested as Prince Willam. He sat on the raised platform with his brother and cousins as his lordly uncle hosted his people to the tune of a high harp playing songs all too sober for the prince’s tastes. Bards had always made him uneasy. Liars, all of them.

“Try to find another way,” the bard sang hauntingly. “To keep safe all the things that I hold dear.”

Willam hated the song of Frostfell and the supposed tragedy that accompanied it.

“Put me through the winter, let it linger. Till my body's gone and till my mind is clear.”

His father had put down the Frost Rebellion with a vengeance and they called it a tragedy rather than an act of defiance; ill thought, ill ended. They sang of love and lingering. The fools.

“Sole responsibility. To protect and serve against who have the nerve!”

Willam snorted at that, earning a heartful punch in the arm from one of his cousins.

“For they all lived comfortably.”

Lord Frost could have kept his peace and been sat here today listening to a less tiresome tune, laughing, and drinking with the others; if he’d just bent the knee rather than calling his levies. He hadn’t, however, the mans pride demanded he answer force with force – a sword for a sword. Blood for blood.

“But the light behind blue eyes betrayed them from their lies.”

Frostfell was a ruin now, aptly renamed Frostfall by some; and technically Willam was its lord.

“A bloody mockery,” He mumbled, refilling his tankard.

“Brother?” The man beside him had risen a brow, waiting his reply.

Willam smiled his best smile. “I was out of ale, dear brother! It always seems to vanish…”

“You drink too much little brother.”

“Ah,” He smirked wide. “I disagree, I drink too little; you sour bastard!”

The bastard sighed at his antics, nursing the same tankard he’d been holding since the feast began.

“Cheer up Snow,” Willam encouraged with a sigh of his own. “I’m not that drunk…”

It took more than a few drinks these days to put him abed. He’d been lectured many a time by his father, some by his mother; but none so often as by an ever-vigilant Cregan Snow, the Bastard of Winterhold.

“I know what I’m doing!” Willam would often snap at the subject, dismissing their worries as foolish.

By the gods he wanted to flee this place, his family, the lords; all of it was too heavy.

“I don’t know what might kill you first,” Cregan sighed warily. “The drink or your stubbornness.”

“The ghosts,” Willam muttered in response without a second’s pause.

“What was that?” Snow asked – to confirm or because he hadn’t heard; Will wasn’t sure.

He drank deep, a thousand thoughts suddenly flashing past him.

“Nothing, dear brother.”

Aye. It would definitely be the damn ghosts.

A raven sat perched comfortably on the rafters, the dim light of fires brushing across its midnight black feathers; with a mischievous glint in strange emerald eyes and what almost seemed a smile of sorts.

“Hello there,” Willam greeted the raven as it landed abruptly at his table, as if it were a lost friend.

The raven said nothing, staring at the Prince with those gleaming emerald eyes.

“Befriending birds now, cousin?”

“So it would seem Ed,” he offered the bird some of his bread. “I’m quite popular. Didn’t you know?”

Edwyn Fisher scoffed happily at that notion as he drank.

“Trust you to befriend the strange looking bird with-“ The great oaken doors swung wide open, letting the early morning cold creep in; as a handful of men in wolfskin cloaks and rugged leathers barged their way inside.

“Lord Odyn!” The lead man bellowed aloud, a scowl on his lips.

Willam knew that scarred face…

“Lord Ryder,” His uncle Odyn Fisher said from his highchair with a slight smile.

Lord Ragnar Ryder, called the Reaper; and worse things by his enemies – the personal huntsman of royalty all these years. The first in battle and blood, as they often boated. No man led a vanguard quite like a Ryder.

The fact no man noted the lords bandaged arm was a testament to how often Ryder’s found trouble.

Lord Fisher held his smirk. “What brings you this far east old friend?”

“What indeed?” Willam offered, white knuckles wrapped around his tankard.

Lord Ryder eyed him, flashing a smile for a moment. “Prince Willam? Is that you boy?!”

“Last I checked, aye my lord; I am he…”

“You’ve fucking grown lad!”

The last time Will had seen this one, his axe was coated in Frost blood.

“Aye. Time has a way of doing that Reaper…” Willam offered his warmest grin to the butcher’s huntsman. He refilled his tankard absently. “So, my Lord of the Hunt. Tell me, what prey brings you so far? Beast or Man?”

“My brother’s arrogance aside,” Cregan offered with another sigh. “I’d know the answer too, my Lord…”

A deep frown found its way onto Ryder’s face, only for another to answer in his place.

“Too often one and the same, little brother; as I’m sure you know.”

The newcomer entered behind Ryder and his men, dressed as if he owned the place – and may as well have, on his person alone boasting enough silver finery against fine grey white silks to build the hall times over.

“Prince Artos!” Lord Fisher stood sharply, the whole hall falling to hushed whispers.

“Greetings Uncle,” The new Prince gave a swift nod before eyeing his side.

Will emptied his tankard before speaking. This was… unexpected…

“Brother,” he eyed his brothers party with suspicion. Ryder stood unphased by Will’s previous use of his title – not that he’d expected the Reaper to care for words – while beside him stood one of four sons; looking angry and proud in equal measure. “This is your hunt then? Has father recalled me home? Am I your prey, big brother?”

“Not today little brother.”

Willam fought the urge to snarl.

“Uncle,” Artos asked with a step forward. “I’ve need of your shipwrights if it’s-“

Lord Fisher smiled genuinely at his sister’s son. “What’s mine is yours lad, but why the need?”

“My business with Nefer has grown… complicated…”

“The Jogos?” Thorim Fisher asked aloud from beside his father.

Artos looked to the Fisher heir and shook his head in reply.

“Those savages?” Lord Ryder scoffed, causing Thorim’s face to redden.

“No more than usual,” Artos waved off the notion. “It’s something more – for the king’s ears.”

“You’d keep secrets from your own uncle, cousin?” Thorim snarled, glaring at the princeling.

“And a fine uncle is he, but-“

Willam eyed his brother closely, noting the way Artos stood some feet apart from Ryder as if expecting the man to draw steel in a heartbeat. He hadn’t smiled once upon his entry, nor offered the usual courtesies expected of a prince; keeping his eyes downcast at mention of Nefer. There was shame there, Will saw it…

Strange. There were things here left unsaid, and few things left a taste so foul as secrets.

“Just speak damn it all, brother…”

Artos glared at the youngest prince but relented with the tide.

“The King of N'ghai has been overthrown,” he began with a glint of anger in his grey stark eyes. ”The usurpers, whoever they are; attempted to murder us all – but we escaped. Some of us, at least…”

“What?!”

“How dare they!”

Willam sat, sipping from his tankard, letting the gathered lords spill their grievances. There was outrage in the air as the hall hushed at Fisher’s command – and the old man demanded, politely, an explanation.

“A madman calling himself a Listener admitted to the killing of our envoy,” Artos began his tale with a tired sigh. “They had a message for my father, some madness about K’Dath and-“

K’Dath? Artos continued to rant his tale, but the name of that place rang in Will’s head like tower bells.

 _“A coincidence?”_ He thought, eyes darting from Artos to the dark red of his drink.

“They tried to kill you lad?!” Lord Fisher asked, fury in his words.

“Aye,” Prince Artos replied. At some stage of his tale, it appeared he’d lost his composure. “As we tried to leave, the rats tried to slaughter us. Lord Ryder almost reached their leader but nearly fell himself, if not for Bjorn’s courage…”

“Bjorn? Is the lad alright?” Lord Fisher asked, eyeing his friend; knowing the answer from a mere glance.

“My son is dead Odyn,” Lord Ryder confirmed with a heavy heart.

Willam caught the glare sent by Bolvar Ryder. It was brief like a lightning flash; but it was there.

“We will avenge him,” Artos swore, eyes downcast. “The others too. That much I swear…”

Nefer was a shadow of its former glory, even with their foul magics… the necromancers hated the Jogos Nhai far more than they disliked trading with outsiders. It was funny, in a way, if the Jogos weren’t hostile to everyone not of their people; they’d have made for better allies than the damn necros…

The Empire had not approved of Winterhold’s dealings with Nefer.

“We should teach the bastards a lesson!”

“The King will crush them all!”

Willam doubted that, the city was ancient; and the last bastion of ancient magics.

“No army could take that city,” Cregan offered sagely. “Not without boundless losses.”

“They’ve sealed the city,” Artos agreed bitterly. “We were lucky with escape with our lives…”

Not all of them had, plainly; as if the death glares of Bolvar Ryder or the fury behind Lord Ryder’s mask weren’t evidence enough. In truth, if anyone had suggested Nefer would attempt this a day before now then that fool would’ve been laughed out of court, but now? It would seem obvious – and in hindsight perhaps it was.

Willam could see the anguish that plagued his brother, try as he might to hide it.

Would his father see it? He doubted that.

“Father will not be pleased Arty…”

Artos scoffed at his little brother, not bothering to acknowledge that truth.

“You’ve my ships lad,” Lord Fisher repeated his earlier vow with greater gusto, raising his voice for the whole hall to hear. “And whatever else you need, is yours Prince Artos. May the gods bless your voyage home.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Artos bowed gracefully. “I’ll give mother your regards.”

“The gods will punish those faithless dogs Rag,” Fisher swore to his old friend. “I know it.”

Ragnar Ryder scowled. “I’ll punish the bastards myself, Odyn; with or without the damn gods!”

Willam gave an absent nod to his brother before he turned, leaving the hall in an awkward silence and hushed whispers – events having soured everyone’s mood. It was an uneasy thing, to count necromancers as your enemy.

“The dead should stay dead,” Prince Willam cursed, refilling his tankard once more. He’d drink till the nagging thoughts left him in peace, or till the drink killed him. Whatever came first.

* * *

He was dreaming an old dream as old warmth washed over, safe and happy, laying in a feathered bed with the women he loved beside him; although her face was sad for reasons he dared not recall.

"Good morning," his love spoke, all smiles and warmth.

Anyone would’ve called him lucky, with her soft and flawless snow-white hair that flowed to her shoulders, sapphire blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice with its warmth. Her eyes, her smile, her laugh, her everything from head to toe. She was his world; for the brief time they had – it was easy to forget reality.

"Morning love," Willam smiled at her, happy and warm and safe. He’d missed her smile.

It wasn't real. He knew this, but simply didn't care.

"Is something wrong?" She’d ask, all too concerned.

"Nothing," he'd replied with a convincing smile. Nothing at all.

"Everything," A child with snow-white hair and sad silver-grey eyes snarled beside their bed. "Everything here is wrong!” He ignored her. She always worried too much. Everything was fine, happy, perfect.

"Would you like to do something?" His love would ask, with a smile sweet as honey.

"She never asked that," the sad child snarled at the illusion. "This isn’t real!”

Was that true? It was, wasn’t it? She’d been afraid that night…

His love vanished into black vapours. He was alone in their bed now, wondering if she was never truly there.

"Why?" Willam stared at the child aside the bed, eyes pleading. "I was-"

"Lying," she replied simply, as if was the simplest of things.

Lying. It was all too easy to forget logic for love; he'd found – it blinded him like nothing else ever could. It was too often easier, safer, warmer than cold truths; that cut like sharp winter winds.

"Wake up," the child asked of him; her voice cracking.

"I don't want to..."

"Wake. Up."

"No."

He didn’t wish to wake.

"Wake!"

Gods, he'd pray, just let him rest. Just leave him be…

"Awake!” The child’s voice roared, ringing against his head and dragging him back to reality.

It seemed there would be no solace in his dreams. The gods were cruel bastards, waking him from a ruined dream with his head rested on a bar that reeked of spilled ale – that had soaked his shirt right through.

“We’ve been here before,” the child’s voice spoke sadly from the dark. “We’ll be here again.”

Willam looked at his companion now. She was young, nothing but a child, with snow white hair and clear silver-grey eyes that shun like stars in the relative darkness that shrouded the pair.

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered to her with a weary sigh.

“You needn’t have asked at all.”

No, he needn’t have, she knew his thoughts all too well.

“You can’t drown it away,” she scolded him with a scowl. “You know this.”

He stared her down, although his heart wasn’t in it. “I can try, girl…”

The child simply rolled her eyes; muttering words he’d pretend to never hear.

He downed another tankard, smooth as velvet and sweet as honey; holding a taste for the drink, its famous bite all but lost to him now. The tavern he sat in alone expect for the girl and a nervous barkeep, it was well stocked and prior to his arrival had been well serviced. He’d changed that, wanting to be alone.

“A- Another?” The barkeep asked, her voice shaky and uneasy.

“Always,” he’d replied, not meaning to sound harsh. “Please…”

She was a beauty. Smooth near flawless skin and green eyes, with red hair.

“I don’t trust her,” was all the girl offered to his side; with near a growl. She didn’t trust anyone.

He eyed the barkeep. He’d scared her, the guilt of it ate at him now.

“I’m sorry for all this,” he decided honesty was best. Lies were bitter things. He hated the taste.

“I don’t-“ The barkeep hesitated, fear halting her choice of words.

“Have you ever lost something precious?”

She offered him nothing as he gave no time to reply.

“Family?” He asked, downing the remains of his glass.

The barkeep said nothing, but her eyes spoke loudly.

Will knew that look, all too well. “How did they die?”

“My daughter,” The barkeep answered coldly. “Last winter.”

He gave her a nod, knowing his words would mean nothing to her. She no doubt thought him spoiled and clueless. “We’ve had it better than many,” The girl would tell him bluntly. “How can we speak on such things?”

He’d often thought, no matter his own struggle; there was always a sadder tale out there somewhere.

“Another,” Will ordered, pushing his empty tankard towards the woman to fill.

“Willam!” A newcomer’s voice rang out over the otherwise empty tavern, standing in the doorway; entering with a disappointed scowl. “Drowning your sorrows still I see, little brother? You really must stop this.”

“Prince Snow,” Willam never so much as turned to acknowledge his bastard brother.

Cregan shrugged off the use of bastard title, wholly uncaring. He pulled out a stool beside his brother and sat with nought but a “mind if I join you?” as if it was question. The woman behind the bar grew more uncomfortable.

“We’ve been celebrating without you,” Cregan began to explain; having stolen his drink, with a blank glance and not a single care in this world. “Uncle said you’d wandered off again. The old man sent me after you.”

“Uncle can go fuck himself,” Willam scoffed, eyeing the barkeep who dropped the new drink she’d been attempting to bring him. “I can barely escape his shadow for an hour. Fathers lapdogs, the lot of you!”

It might’ve been the drink talking. In fact, he knew it was; and the guilt of it ate at him even now.

“Was taking over this whole establishment entirely necessary?”

Willam glared, locking eyes with the bastard for a moment; daring him with grey eyes.

“No,” he supposed not. “But the hall was getting bloody loud. I needed to think…”

“It was rather rude of you,” said the girl happily on the stool beside him; a finger on her chin as if to think. Her smile was mocking. “As a matter of fact, you’ve scared the pretty lady half to death!”

He simply stared at her. This had been Her idea, for god’s sake!

 _“You’d suggested this,”_ Willam thought angrily. _“Maybe take some credit for once?”_

She held a beaming smile, full of mischief. Why did he ever listen to her?

“Will?” Cregan asked, with concern breaking the bastard’s usually stoic mask. “I think you’ve had enough to drink. All else aside little brother, enough is enough; stop this nonsense.”

Maybe, but still; he saw Elssa in the barkeep. It warmed and stung in equal measure. True love burned into the soul; he’d found. To see her in the face of every women he laid eyes on. Love was a ghost, and it haunted him.

“Run along Tiff,” Willam dismissed the woman behind the bar. She paused, looking to his brother.

“Now,” Cregan scolded. “This is her home. We’ll be the ones to depart.”

The bastard had a point. She lived here…

“My apologies Lady Tiffany.”

He hoped it sounded sincere as she blinked, unsure of what to say.

“Enjoy the rest of the celebrations my lady,” Cregan offered simply. “And accept payment…”

“Payment?” Willam asked aloud, receiving a swift slap across the back of his head.

It was with a groan and yet another muttered apology that he gave the barkeep a pouch of gold, far more than she’d ever seen or would ever have earned otherwise no doubt. Pocket change to him, but a blessing to her.

The world spun ever so slightly as he got up from his stool and exited the tavern.

How much _had_ he drunk? Only the gods knew…

“Aedan!” Will smirked and scowled at his friend, ever vigilantly guarding the door outside.

“Sorry,” came the immediate apology. “Prince Snow demanded entry and-“

“And I hold your master’s leash, Outlander.”

Aedan scowled both at the title and harsh truth.

“Don’t worry about it Grey,” Willam shrugged at his friend, smirking wide before speaking. “Snow has no choice! Father orders and the hound must obey, or it’ll find itself missing its balls!”

The Bastard of Winterhold merely sighed at the drunken ramblings.

“We should get you to bed Will…”

“Aye,” Willam agreed dizzily. “A feathered bed does sound-“

The town bells shattered against the walls of Willam’s mind, ringing something fierce, making the drunk prince scowl and curse the gods for the noise. “Riders returning!” the shouts came with the bells. “Open the gates!”

“What’s anyone doing outside the walls this late?” Aedan asked aloud, looking to Cregan for answers.

He, Aden and Will watched the far gate open across the square as a handful of men near limped into the settlement seemingly hurt; stained obviously with blood and muck. “Greystark?”

“Aye, Prince Snow?”

“Take my brother to his bed,” The bastard ordered. “I’ll check on this.”

“But surely we should-“

“That was an order, Outlander!” Cregan snapped at the young man. “See to your charge or I’ll see to it my father hears you’re incapable of fulfilling your duty! I’ll handle whatever this is…”

Aedan reluctantly wished the bastard Prince luck before near carrying Willam towards the main keep and the comfort of a feathered bed, all while the drunk Will muttered half a conversion with himself.

“Y- You worry-“

He’d ramble as they neared the keep.

“S- Stupid girl…”

Aedan fought the urge to roll his eyes as they neared the chambers.

“Vis,” Willam had growled at the air. “L- Leave me alone…”

With those words the Prince collapsed onto his feathered bed and near instantly drifted to sleep, muttering of girls and demons; necromances and liars – nonsense Aedan would blame on the drink.

* * *

The waking world hurt like hell. He’d grown used to it, honestly; but still…

“How much did I drink?” He asked aloud, half up from his bed; still dressed in his leathers and aching all over. It seems, somehow – he wasn’t sure how exactly – that he’d managed to find his bed after the tavern. With a groan and realization that he reeked of booze; the young prince willed himself out of the bed.

A raven cawed at him from the open window, all black feathers and mischief in its eyes.

“Don’t judge me,” Willam eyed the bird as he stumbled over the basin of fresh water that had seemingly been left for him. The Prince unceremoniously dunked his head into the water like a common lowborn.

“Sword!” The damn crow squawked at him from the window.

“Excuse you?” He raised a brow at the bird.

“Sword, Sword, Sword!”

Frostbite rested in its fine runed scabbard peacefully on the chest at the foot of his bed, along with a convenient fresh tunic. Aedan seemed the likely culprit. The man was as dutiful as they came…

“My thanks Ser Crow,” Willam bowed gracefully at the bird. “I’d be lost without thee!”

The bird flapped its wings in reply. Will eyed the thing suspiciously before shrugging, changing into the fresh black tunic with fancy silver trim before strapping Frostbite to his hip and finally putting a glove over his sword hand.

Outside the room, slumped against the wall, was a sleeping Greystark.

“Aedan,” Will gave the man a swift kick and a friendly smile.

“Who!” Aedan awoke in a panic. “Will, I was-“

“Sleeping on the job?”

“No!” He denied, before lowering his eyes. “I mean, yes but-“

“Relax little brother, just don’t let my father’s men catch you…”

A nod at that, understanding; they’d take any excuse to replace him.

“Lord Fisher bid me bring you to him the moment you woke, My Prince.”

“Did he now?” Unsurprising, he was probably overdue another long-winded lecture about duty and honour. Fisher loved his duty almost if not more than he loved his own wife. “We best not keep my uncle waiting then…”

The pair walked in quiet for a time down the hallways to the great hall where Lord Fisher would no doubt be hosting his usual morning feast with his close family. “Prince Artos has left,” Aedan explained as they walked.

To home he assumed. “Anything else happen that I missed Grey?”

“Prince Snow is readying for a sweep of the jungles,” Nothing out of the ordinary there. “Last night a patrol returned as we left the tavern, it seems the locals have grown bolder – several of the patrol were killed…”

“By the natives?” Will doubted. They were savage, aye, but equally timid near the coast.

Aedan seemed concerned. “Another died of fever – infection from the bites was too far along.”

The natives were green-skinned savages, the females filing their teeth into sharp points to bite and gnaw. They were no Shrykes, certainly; but no less hostile despite being only human. They weren’t known for attacking large patrols and avoided like coast like it was certain death – the sea made of acid that burnt for them to even look at.

For nearly a whole patrol to be wiped out? It was concerning, to say the least.

“Strange times we live in eh Grey?”

Aedan agreed with a simple hum.

The oaken doors to the great hall swung wide as the guardsmen announced their entry with a simple “Prince Willam Stark” failing to bother naming his shadowing greycloak. All eyes fell on the pair.

“Nephew,” Lord Fisher eyed him. “You’re late lad…”

“Oh, I disagree!” Willam smiled wide and arrogant, his hands spread wider theatrically as he stepped forward. “A prince is never late, dear Uncle, those that arrive before him are simply early!”

“Do they also smell of booze?” Thorim asked with a smirk.

“Only the handsome ones, dear cousin.”

“Ha!” Edwyn Fisher scoffed at that as his brother laughed.

“Something to say, little cousin?” Willam grabbed a loaf of bread from the table, ripping apart a piece to eat.

“Perish the thought Will,” Edwyn rolled his eyes. “I’d never dream of correcting a Prince!”

Willam stared at the man blankly.

“Something the matter?”

“Correcting?”

“Did I say that?” Edwyn looked innocently.

“Enough!” Lord Fisher snapped with a sigh. “Will, take a seat, cease your efforts to give an old man a headache, would you kindly? We’ve enough to occupy ourselves with without you sparring with my boys…”

Willam bowed gracefully. “As you say, Uncle.”

“I was winning anyway,” Edwyn held a smirk as he cut at the smoked fish before him, taking a bite and savouring the taste as Will muttered his disagreement with a roll of his eyes akin to that of a small child.

He did not fail to note the glare from Thorim’s wife. The newest Lady Fisher didn’t like him much.

The feast, by Fisher standards, was minimal; with smoked fish and yet more damn fish. The heart of House Fishers wealth was in fact Cod from the watery channels between the Sunset Islands. They were also responsible for the islands trade in tuna and the more expensive salmon; but their delicacy was Shark – turning the very banner of House Fisher into steaks and filets marinated in sour wines, milk, or saltwater.

It wasn’t every house that would cook its own banner, but the silver shark of Fisher saw all profit under the waves; as it had always done. “Oh joy,” Willam muttered as he sat at the table. “Look, more fish!”

Thorim’s wife glared at him. “You should be grateful, my Prince…”

“Should I now?” Willam asked, smirking. “Is that so _Lady_ _Flint_?”

The pair stared at each other blankly, the use of her family name causing some tension – although Lady Talia hid her emotions with a very of professionalism. She was brave, and it made Willam’s smile honest.

“There’s to be an expedition lad,” Lord Fisher decreed, interrupting the pairs contest.

That was odd. There hadn’t been one since the last logging camp was organized…

“Why?” Willam asked, curious.

“Is this about the scouting party father?”

“Aye,” Lord Fisher gave a nod. “Last night, as you know boys, a party of men near crawled their way through out fair gates; beaten and bitten – so much so that one of them passed last night from infection…”

“Those beasts fear the sea,” Lady Talia spoke, unsure in this; looking to her husband. “Do they not?”

“The demons don’t go near the coast love,” Thorim confirmed quickly.

Edwyn figured it out first, putting down his fish and looking to his father with a glint of worry.

“It wasn’t the coast, _was_ _it_ , father?”

Lord Fisher shook his head silently. It wasn’t.

“They hit one of the logging camps?”

“Aye,” Lord Fisher confirmed with a scowl. “It was sudden, I’m told; they attacked in uncommon numbers with surprising efficiency for savages. As it stands, four men returned to us and only three remain.”

Willam had long since stopped eating. “There’s something you’re not saying…”

Something foul hung in the air. He could smell a secret from miles away, as bitter a stench as ever.

“I spoke to the one coherent man among the four,” Lord Fisher explained. “It seems, according to his account, that the savage did not outright kill everyone at the camp. It would appear they-“

Willam scoffed at the suggestion. “You can’t be serious Uncle…”

“Do not interrupt boy!” Lord Fisher scolded his nephew.

“They took prisoners.” It was Thorim to the point, growing concerned. “You’re certain, father?”

A moment’s pause at that, the old Lords concern playing havoc with his features as he gave a nod In reply.

“They don’t take prisoners?” Edwyn dismissed, more question than answer in truth.

“They don’t,” Willam agreed fully. “They never have. Not once…”

There was it seemed, a first time for everything. The nights just kept growing darker and it seemed to Will as if the world got some sick kick out of making things difficult. “What do they want with captives…”

“That my boy,” Lord Fisher looked to his heir. “Is what we intend to discover. I’ll not leave our people to whatever foul fate those savages have planned – may the gods keep them whole…”

“Nothing pretty I wager,” Willam muttered absently.

“Must you go?” Lady Talia asked her husband. “Is it not a task for the guardsmen?”

Thorim Fisher smiled, leaning over to kiss his newly caught wife before reassuring her. “Our family suffered the Iron Kings for generations my love, we struggled but made our enemies reap what they sowed.”

“A few savages are no match for us Tally, fret not.” Edwyn smiled at his sister-in-law.

“Strong as Stone,” Lord Fisher echoed his house words with pride.

Willam poured himself some wine. Today was going to be a long day.

* * *

It was a small thing for Lord Fisher to call on a hundred men willing to carve out the jungle on a fool’s errand searching for men that were certainly long dead and butchered by the local demons – such as the Mossovy called them, or such as they believed. Their legends spoke of demons and demon hunters…

The locals, however demonized, were simply human. They bled red as sure as any other.

“Are you excited cousin?” Edwyn had walked up to him in the courtyard looking oddly happy. “We’re finally ridding ourselves of those local pests – too long delayed if you ask me! We should’ve done this sooner.”

It wasn’t that they hadn’t tried before, but the jungles were thick and the islands vast.

“This won’t be pretty, Ed.”

Edwyn frowned. “I know, but still-“

“It’ll be bloody,” Willam countered. “Butchers work, truly.”

His cousin seemed to deflate. “What choice is there?”

They could choose to leave the captive men to their doubtlessly decided and grisly fate, and in fact Willam believed that the best decision – instead of sending a hundred men into thick jungles full of foulness chasing corpses.

“None,” he opted to say instead of all that. “None at all.”

“Why so glum looking little brother?!”

“Thorim,” Willam greeted the Fisher heir absently, his eyes scanning the yard.

He smirked, clasping Will on the shoulder gladly as if they were the best of friends.

“We leave in short order!” Thorim degreed as if he were already a lord. “Father says I’m to accompany you, wants the people to see their future lord off to slay beasts and all that. You lads ready?”

Edwyn’s mood seemed to improve at the sound of his brother’s bluster. Whatever the young heir’s faults, he oozed confidence. “Ready as ever brother, we’ll teach those savages to steal away with our people!”

The more Willam thought about this plan, the more he wanted another drink…

“Lambs to the slaughter, cousin…”

“That’s the spirit Will!” Thorim mistook the prince’s tone for something it wasn’t.

Around them men and women readied their steel, chainmail and leathers and food for the expedition – that consisted mainly of smoked fish and meats – and all other necessities; as if they were off to a damn picnic. The silver shark of House Fisher flew proudly in the gentle sea breeze as the company prepared to depart.

“Hold still my Prince.” Aedan was busy strapping on the rest of his armour. A simply lightweight steel breastplate with faulds attached to protect the front waist and hips, along with matching gauntlets. The only prominent feature was a single ornate pauldron covering his shoulder, engraved with silver runes of the old tongue. Last but not least Aedan handed his prince a close-fitting Y-shaped slit helmet that Willam often refused to wear. The armour was simple but practical, although only one pauldron over his left shoulder was a personal preference.

It may have provided a weak point, but in the stubborn Prince’s opinion; he’d simply avoid being hit.

"Almost done," Aedan commented, tightening the strap on Willam’s shoulder.

"Ouch,” Willam frowned mockingly. “That hurt..."

“It’ll hurt more when someone slashes your other shoulder. If you’d just-“

“It limits my swing,” He dismissed the idea. “I’ve told you Grey, I’ll just-“

“Not get hit.” Aedan and Edwyn echoed at the same time, one sighing while the other laughed.

He hadn’t been hit yet so it seemed to be working, besides; he did truly prefer the freedom such a decision carried regardless of the risk. “I don’t see any of you besting me with a sword, eh?”

Aedan simply scowled at that, holding true to his complaints.

“There’s always next time cousin!” Edwyn smirked.

“And all the time’s after that Ed…”

“Prince Willam!” A voice called out, leading a white stallion over to the group; kitted in attire similar to House Fisher’s men-at-arms only baring the grey direwolf of Stark. He offered the reigns to his prince.

“Hello Frost,” Will stroked the horse’s mane; his smile true. “Has he been behaving, Ivar?”

“Aye,” Ivar gave a nod, smirking at the horse as he handed it away. “He’s harmless m’lord.”

Hardly. If memory served, the horse once bit off some noble idiot’s ear…

“You’ve a natural talent with horses my friend.”

“Thank ye m’lord!”

Willam rolled his eyes at the use of his title.

“Ready for your first taste of battle, Scout?” Aedan asked, happily finished with his prince’s armour.

“Aye,” Ivar replied eagerly. “Is it true though, what the men say?”

Willam kept quiet, raising a brow in question.

“About the demons, m’lords…”

The group, except for Ivar, laughed aloud.

“Whatever tall tales the men are telling,” Willam smirked happily as his brain unwrapped a thought. “I assure you Ivar, it’s probably worse. Far worse. By the gods, isn’t it true Grey? The tales. You know the ones!”

Aedan seemed to understand. “About the demons with three heads?”

“Aye!” Willam agreed, nodding thoughtfully.

“And don’t forget the fire breathing…”

“Who could forget the fire breath?!”

“Enough cousin,” Thorim was laughed. “You’ve scared your man half to death!”

Willam smirked, eying Ivar’s worried looking expression.

“It’s not true?”

“No, Ivar my friend; it’s not.”

“They breathe acid,” Edwyn offered helpfully. “Not fire.”

Willam, Aedan and the Fishers all nodded sadly at those words.

Ivar signed with a heavy frown.

“I want to go back home…”


End file.
